


Cabin Pressure

by Elfgrandfather



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Airline!AU, Alternate Universe, Canon Era, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Mystery, Thriller, hannibal doesn't help, rated Explicit for the violence rather than the (sparse) sexual content, whiffs of horror, will has a lot of problems
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-05
Updated: 2016-12-27
Packaged: 2018-08-13 02:43:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 30,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7959235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elfgrandfather/pseuds/Elfgrandfather
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will Graham is an awkward flight attendant with anxiety, psychosis and canon-typical sadbrains. Hannibal Lecter is a one percenter with international assignments and extensive travel perks.</p><p>Bad things ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is _very_ loosely based on Cut (by Duncan Graham), a show I saw at the 2016 Edinburgh Fringe. Apologies to the playwright.
> 
> I’m European so the American stuff is probably all wrong. I've done a few hours of research and I'm a seasoned traveler but I don’t know dick about being a flight attendant and I’ve selectively ignored things that don’t align with the narrative (e.g. flight crews rotate constantly and aren’t made up of the same bunch of guys). Apologies to flight crew Fannibals (?).
> 
> The fic's all planned out so I should be putting out chapters pretty regularly! I'm on Tumblr at [elfgrandfather](http://elfgrandfather.tumblr.com) if you want to say hey.
> 
> Edit: I cleaned up the grammar of this chapter on 21/12/2016.

Droplets clung to his eyebrows like morning dew. He didn’t know if it was water or sweat. Inside the airplane’s claustrophobic toilet, under the glare of the halogen lights, everything looked altered, unreal. He rubbed his chin, feeling nascent stubble. He’d have to shave closer next time. The scent of blood spread out from his sinuses into his nose, faded when he sniffed firmly and blinked a few times.

Tap tap tap.

Three little knocks rapped fast against the door.

Will stood up straight to check that his uniform remained mostly unrumpled. No vomit on anything this time. He smoothed down his dark blue tie, tucked in his shirt, buttoned up his waistcoat, brought his glasses to his face. The mirror cut his body off at the nose and thighs, and he was glad. He didn’t like to make eye contact with anybody, and in times like these, least of all with himself. His mouth widened into a grotesque grin, then another, then relaxed into an awkward, but passably natural smile. He popped a mint onto his tongue. Right.

Beverly gave him a look when he stepped out. ‘You okay?’

‘Yeah,’ he deployed the smile in her general direction on his way to the food cart. ‘I’m never good at keeping my pantry fresh. Probably ate something weird.’

‘Ew. Maybe you should’ve taken more time off,’ she came to his side to count the sandwiches. ‘You’ve earned it.’

‘Yeah, maybe.’

‘The dogs’d like to see you, I bet.’

Will paused, then finished setting down the last bottle of still water. ‘Yeah.’

His little pack was happily being led by another man in his absence. Jim Gallagher, his neighbour, a guy with a big farm, a rat problem and two old hounds who could barely drag themselves in and out of the house anymore. Will only had to pay for their food. It wasn’t meant to be this way, but over time, he’d taken to picking up so many shifts that… maybe it would be kinder to give them away altogether. But they were always so happy to see him. They made the nightmares less daunting.

‘Hey,’ Beverly murmured, putting a hand on Will’s arm. He couldn’t help bristling. ‘Me and Jimmy can handle Economy today. You do Business.’

‘Honestly, I’m fine,’ he started, but she’d already snaked around him to motion to the other end of the cabin, where Jimmy and Brian were carrying on one of their hushed quarrels. With a dismissive wave, Jimmy strode over, and soon he and Beverly were wheeling the cart down the aisle.

Gingerly, smile firmly in place, Will stepped into the bubble of Business class to take food and drink orders. The area wasn’t that full, and at a glance, Will knew them.

He was Fred Jackson, dyed black hair and crimson signet ring, mopping beaded sweat off his top lip, desperately trying to repress the shakes of his early onset Parkinson’s. Green curry.

He was the girl at the man’s side, Marie King, easily young enough to be his daughter, betrayed by her doleful blue eyes and the familiar way her fingers kneaded his knee. She needed the money. A dying relative. Green curry, too. No. Just the soup.

He was the investment bankers, Patrick, Paul and Preston; thinking and moving as one, aching for a smoke and the jet of the hotel hot tub on their shoulders. Caesar salad. Caesar salad. Caesar salad. No dressing.

And then, there was the man he didn’t know.

He was near a window, an empty seat by his side. His face was turned away, and Will could only see his strong jawline and hair neatly parted on the side. Matching plaid trousers and waistcoat with a paisley tie, unnaturally well-tailored, clinging to his body with no extraneous wrinkles. Suit jacket hung on the coat hook near his head. Sat perfectly still, radiating a quiet serenity that rang through Will’s forehead. His migraine throbbed.

‘Would you like something to eat, sir?’

Will’s gaze shifted down to avoid direct eye contact, but he noted the man’s face – striking, sharp features, with an air that was oddly alien and, above all, impenetrable. He wouldn’t have forgotten a face like this if he’d seen it before, would he? But he couldn’t remember seeing him board the plane, couldn’t remember showing him to his seat. Couldn’t remember his name. And yet, there was a familiarity.

The man smiled curtly, unzipping his bag.

‘I’ve brought the essentials,’ he produced a high-end thermos jar and a spoon, ‘though I would appreciate having this heated, if you could.’

‘Sure thing,’ Will reached for the jar, mulling over the man’s accent. Clearly foreign, but frustratingly hard to place. He’d have to ask Bev. The feeling of skin on skin shocked him out of his thoughts, and he realised he’d grazed the man’s hand with his own. With a murmured apology, he stalked back to the flight attendants’ area.

Business meals were a couple of steps above the usual fare and required some actual cooking skill, which tended to be fairly therapeutic. Today, though, with Will’s insides migrating all around his body, the scent of simmering food and the wet texture of fresh salad ingredients on his hands were almost enough to send him hurtling back to the toilet. The thermos was his last task. Then he could sit down, and possibly never stand up again. He swapped out the pot of curry for the jar on the electric hob and set about delivering the courses, hoping he’d avoid getting into the passengers’ heads. He didn’t want to handle that. Not now. Not with –

The smell.

With most of Business fed, Will returned to the container simmering on the stove. It looked delicious and smelled even better: a rich, meaty broth bubbling with peppers, onions and spices he wasn’t sure he could recognise. The mixture would still have made him a little queasy if it wasn’t for a particular scent piercing through the nausea, straight into his temporal lobe, a scent that reminded him of late nights in the French Quarter and lives cut short. The soup was almost boiling now. Stove off, jar swaddled in a napkin.

The man looked pleased to see Will return.

‘Careful, it’s hot,’ he said, passing the bundle.

‘Thank you.’

He placed the soup on his fold-out table and extracted a small Tupperware box of cornbread. It was only when the man attempted to make eye contact that Will realised he’d been dumbly standing in the aisle, staring. He pulled out his well-worn, standard issue smile. Ignore the dread of starting a conversation, the dryness at the back of the throat.

‘Sorry, sir, I was wondering… is that turtle soup?’

The man nodded and used his spoon to fish out a morsel of meat. ‘With fresh spinach, a poached egg, and a snifter of sherry,’ he dunked his spoon fully and took a small sip. ‘Amongst other ingredients. I’m surprised you recognised it.’

‘I’m familiar with it. Worked in New Orleans for a good couple of years before this.’ Will’s face softened with nostalgia, a rare display of feeling. ‘I didn’t think I’d see it in a plane, of all places. I guess it took me by surprise.’

‘This recipe travels well. I haven’t had airplane food in decades. I take great care with what I put in my body, you see.’

‘The health codes are pretty tough nowadays, I don’t think you’ve got anything to be afraid of.’

Will eyed the swirly vapour coming off the soup, curling around the man’s face. Where had he seen that face?

‘Oh, that isn’t my main concern. It’s the,’ he paused to think, holding the spoon to his full lips, ‘ _quality_ of the ingredients. Their unknown origin. You wouldn’t let a stranger into your home, so why allow strange food into your body?’

‘No, that makes sense. Yeah.’

Will knew he ought to go back to his area and sit down. Get some rest after puking his guts out. But talking to someone he couldn’t instantly read was _rare_ , disconcerting and liberating all at once. Before he could politely excuse himself, the man spoke again.

‘You worked in New Orleans, you said?’

Noises of those nights filled his ears before he could block them out. Sirens. Gunfire. He nodded.

‘Yeah. Couple of years.’ Pause. ‘Law enforcement.’

‘Ah, then you would know all about not letting strangers into one’s home.’

The man was smiling now. Will reciprocated. ‘It got covered in the first week of training.’

‘And now you work here. Quite a change, I imagine.’ He looked down at the empty seat beside him. ‘Would you sit with me?’

‘I don’t think my colleagues would be happy about me doing that,’ Will said, making no moves to leave.

‘Business class is mostly empty. You have finished your duties, for now. And you look tired. Would anyone really mind if you took a break?’

‘Well…’

Half of him screamed for some time alone, but the other couldn’t deny that the plush Business seats and a few minutes with this opaque man seemed extremely inviting. He glanced back at the hard foldable chairs reserved for flight crew.

‘Please, Will. Rest.’

Hearing his name briefly froze him before he realised Bev had announced their names at the beginning of the flight, as she always did. It was unusual to have a passenger actually pay attention – and to be addressed so familiarly by a stranger felt bizarre. The perks of the service industry.

Will sat down, his muscles groaning almost audibly.

‘I would like the opinion of an expert,’ Will heard. He could see the man’s hands tearing off a piece of cornbread, then present it to him. ‘Tell me how it compares to your experience.’

‘Thanks.’

Will’s stomach feebly protested, but he shrugged it off as he popped the piece into his mouth. He blinked.

‘What do you think?’

‘I don’t know if you were going for _authentic_ , because I’m not sure I’ve had…’ Will chewed thoughtfully. ‘There’s tomatoes in this, right?’

A nod. ‘Sun-dried tomatoes, goat’s cheese and thyme. Unsatisfying?’

‘No, no, God, it’s amazing,’ he said earnestly, rolling the flavour around his mouth. ‘Best thing I’ve had in a _while_. I don’t know if I’ve had anything like it, though. So I can’t say how it compares.’

‘I am prone to embellishments. I’m glad you enjoyed it, although I’m sorry it didn’t conjure up memories of New Orleans.’

Will snorted. ‘That’s not a bad thing.’

The man silently spooned a few helpings of soup into his mouth. ‘You don’t like to remember?’

‘It’s all in the past,’ Will’s eyes were heavy. Maybe sitting in such a comfortable seat wasn’t a great idea. ‘I don’t think there’s much of a point in remembering. I’m here now.’

‘That you are.’

Although the cabin was filled with the hum of human noise, Will found it surprisingly easy to concentrate on the immediate. The aeroplane’s engine, the taste of cornbread and mint, the scent of expensive aftershave and homebrewed turtle soup. It was easy to forget the nightmares, the screaming.

‘I killed someone,’ Will heard himself murmur, ‘in New Orleans. When I was a cop.’

His neighbour didn’t say anything. The soup was nearly finished.

‘I wasn’t out of line. I was in the right. Even made the papers as some sort of…’ he trailed off, not knowing what to say. Hero? Even thinking it felt bitter. He looked at his shoes; worn and dusty, outside the apartment, his heartbeat hammering in his ears. The gun weighed ten tons in his hands, metal slick with sweat. She was screaming. The door solid against his shoulder: once, twice, down.

Gunfire. Once, twice, down. Once, twice. Once, twice.

‘Did you want to escape from it all?’

He blinked. His body was rigid, the sweat cold on his forehead. The cornbread in his stomach wasn’t settling, the flavour still in his mouth _._ Shit.

‘That’s why you travel so much.’

He walked past the mother, exsanguinated, and the father, riddled with bullets, crouching near the daughter. She was young, just a teenager, throat slashed wide open. Her mouth opened and closed spastically as she tried to force out words, but all that came was a sick, wet gurgle and a thick strand of red, cloudy spit. Instinctively, seeking to comfort, his hand cupped her face, he gently wiped the saliva from her lips with his thumb. Two dead. Three soon. A hand on his shoulder as the blood seeped into the floorboards.

‘Will.’

He looked at his hands – but instead of calloused, bloodstained paws, he saw the present. Trim, clean fingernails, white shirt cuffs. Will was on flight 6163 to JFK International, sitting in Business Class. It was 7:32PM. The hand on his shoulder was real, and Will gruffly shrugged it off before he realised he’d just dismissed a passenger who was very reasonably worried about this sudden short-circuit. _Shit._

‘Sorry,’ Will said, sweeping his gaze to just under the man’s eyes. This, he hoped, would be close enough to qualify as sincere visual contact. ‘I don’t like being touched.’

‘I apologise.’ Will’s peripheral vision told him the man’s eyes were dark, the mind behind them shrouded in mystery. ‘You had me concerned when you disassociated. I assume that is what happened, at any rate.’

Will glanced back at his hands, slowly clenching his fists, rotating them to look at his palms.

‘You checked the time. Your observed your hands. They’re grounding mechanisms,’ the man’s voice seemed clearer than before, penetrating. The rest of the cabin was silent.

‘Yeah,’ Will closed his fists, put them down on his knees. ‘It happens. The, er, absences. Sorry.’ His laugh was throaty, cynical. ‘I’m not too good with people.’

‘If that is so, you have picked an odd occupation.’

The passenger had resumed his meal. Will noticed the jar of turtle soup was gone now, the bread finished. The man was now slowly making his way through a small but stout rectangle of dark chocolate, breaking off minute pieces and letting them melt in his mouth. Will had been out for a solid 15, 20 minutes. It had seemed like seconds, but time was malleable inside the labyrinth of his synapses.

‘I would wager that a flight attendant must engage in a great amount of interpersonal communication.’

‘You’d be right. But it’s superficial.’ Will’s hands met and folded into each other, resting on his lap. ‘I see a lot of people every day. Hundreds, sometimes thousands. But I don’t really _meet_ them. I don’t talk to them, not usually. I just have to… smile, do what I’m expected to do. I’m _expected_ to put up a front, no one wants us to be, er, _genuine_. It’s like acting.’

The man split a chunk off his chocolate and offered it up. Will took it and put it on his tongue, hoping to wash away the taste of Louisiana. It was as bitter as he’d predicted, with a heavy texture that coated his entire mouth. His words stuck to the roof of his mouth.

‘It’s easy to do as one pleases from behind the safety of a mask.’

‘It’s easi _er_ ,’ Will paused to lick the melted chocolate from his back teeth. ‘I don’t get to know them, or see things through their eyes. It’s like… diluted interaction, you know? Instead of meeting five people but having to be inside their heads and guess what they want from me, I greet a thousand and I barely even get their names. And the rest of the time, I travel. I go everywhere, anonymously.’

The man finished his dessert, biting into the final piece with a little crunch. ‘It sounds exhausting.’

‘It works for me. Keeps me busy.’ Beat. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘What for?’

‘I don’t usually sit with passengers and blab about my life. Or disassociate next to them. Or whatever.’ Will laughed again, higher-pitched. ‘I guess it helps that you’re a good listener. And that you’ve been feeding me great, decidedly non-airline food.’

‘It’s been my pleasure, Will. One doesn’t often meet such interesting people.’

Will smiled. ‘I’m not that interesting.’

‘I disagree.’

This time, the pause came from the man rather than him. Not struggling to properly formulate a sentence, like Will frequently did, but seeking the right moment, or the right tone. Finally:

‘I’ve killed someone too.’

The seatbelt sign turned on with a little ‘ping,’ and Will vaguely heard Brian’s voice on the loudspeakers, telling passengers that the plane would soon be landing in New York. Faint clicking noises as their neighbours fastened themselves in. The man was gazing at him intently now, open without being exposed.

‘You don’t have to be alone,’ he said.

Will opened his mouth, thought better of it. Tried again. A loud ‘psst!’ made him turn his head to see Beverly standing over him, eyes wide.

‘You’re wanted up front,’ she said in an urgent stage whisper, before beating a speedy retreat towards the service area. Will nodded at the man beside him.

‘I’m wanted up front. Apparently.’ Will awkwardly tapped his palms on his knees, aware that he had to gracefully remove himself from the situation. ‘Thanks for the great food. And thanks for…’

The man listened carefully. Will squirmed. ‘For not freaking out, I guess. I wouldn’t have blamed you for thinking I’m a creep.’ He stood, embarrassed, and made to leave. ‘Thanks.’

‘Will.’

He hesitated, but turned around. The man was extending an open hand and smiling amiably.

‘It was a pleasure speaking with you. I travel often. Perhaps we will meet again.’ Will’s hand met his own and they shook, the man’s grip almost too firm. ‘I’m Hannibal Lecter.’

‘Hannibal Lecter,’ Will repeated. ‘Goodbye.’

The ghost of his hand in Will’s lingered, as physical contact usually did, like a sticky coat. Hannibal Lecter. Even the name was somehow familiar. Everything about him felt familiar, but he couldn’t remember. Beverly was staring at him, pushing down the empty seat next to her.

‘What was _that_ about?’ she said, making no effort to keep her voice down. Will sat and buckled his seatbelt. Across the aisle, he could see Brian and Jimmy at their end of the plane, similarly strapped in. Jimmy gave him a mock-jaunty wave, clearly itching to get to the hotel and out of his work clothes.

‘Just talking with a passenger. He asked me to sit with him.’

‘Will Graham? Talking to a passenger? _Conversing_? _Chatting_ , even?’

Will heard the grin in her voice, and it made him smile too, even though his stomach was complaining and his head was pounding. He’d told him. He’d said it.

‘You’re the one who always wants me to socialise. Aren’t you proud?’

‘ _So_ proud. Soon you’ll be all independent, living on your own, going to college…’ she laughed, and gave him a tiny nudge with her knee. ‘It’s good seeing you make friends that _aren’t_ on four legs. Just don’t space out again when you’ve got some tightass from the airline on your flight, okay? I don’t want you to get fired.’

‘I know. Sorry. I guess you guys picked up the dinner trays for me while I was, uh, spacing out?’

‘Yup. I mean, it was only like five trays plus dessert, so whatever. Just get me a beer when we touch down.’ Will thanked his stars Bev was part of his tiny pool of friends. Another nudge. ‘ _So_?’

‘So… he’s European. His English was perfect, very formal, but the accent…’ Will shrugged. ‘Slavic, maybe.’

‘A Slavic guy travelling Business from Mexico to New York?’ Beverly said, amused. ‘Sounds shady. What’s his story? What does he do?’

Will didn’t know. He’d never asked. The chocolate still clung to his teeth. What _did_ he know about Hannibal?

‘He… something that lets him buy bespoke suits and expensive plane tickets,’ he replied lamely, shrugging.

‘Seriously? It never came up?’ her incredulity was palpable, ‘you were there like, an hour? Maybe more?’

‘We talked about other stuff. He’s a great cook. He had turtle soup with him.’

‘Oh my God. He sounds weirder with every word you say, Graham.’

Will smiled. ‘Why do you think we got on so well?’

Beverly laughed brightly, one of the few he knew did so _with_ him rather than _at_ him, and the pit of his fragile stomach shifted upwards as the plane started its descent towards the airport. Will looked down at the veins in his wrists. They were a sickly green hue, like the rivers back when he was a kid. He would stand waist-deep in the water next to his father, silently waiting for something to take the bait at the end of their lines. Fishing was one of the few things they could do together, one of the few things the old man would sober up for. Squinting at the setting sun, his dad’s hand covering his own too tightly, reeling in a catfish too big for his pole, he wondered how many licks of the belt he’d get when the line inevitably snapped. He clenched his fists, forcing the veins outwards. The plane skipped a couple of times on the tarmac, then smoothly glided towards the terminal.

Will unbuckled his belt, hands trembling. He did not see Hannibal exiting the plane.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is later than I wanted it to be! Chapter 2 was written on planes, trains, and at a christening party. I've been travelling a lot, which is apt but also means I've been busy. Let's hope I won't need another two weeks to write the third chapter.
> 
> Jetting around Europe means I had lots of time to make a playlist for this fic, though. [Check it out if you'd like!](http://8tracks.com/vladmitry/cabin-pressure-will-hannibal)
> 
> PS: apologies to Cutthroat Kitchen for straight-up lifting a joke.
> 
> Edit: I cleaned up the grammar of this chapter on 22/12/2016.

Through the oval windows of the cabin, Will could see tiny white specks strewn across velvety darkness. Inside, the glowing strips framing the length of the aisle faintly illuminated the underside of hundreds, thousands of chairs. He took a tentative step and his shoe sank into the carpet like it was wet moss, leaving behind a shining print.

He walked. He walked. He wanted to run, but he walked, down the deserted lane that stretched further away with every inch he covered. No sound but that of his breathing echoed through the space: steady, deep intakes, a hiss of pain when he rammed, head first, into an invisible wall. He touched it, then hit it softly. Harder. _Harder_. Pounding against it now with the sides of both fists, filling the plane with violent _bang bang bangs_ until –

The first bullet pierced his heart. Will choked out a throatful of blood as the second and third bullets exploded through his lungs, the fourth ripped his stomach, the fifth and sixth seared through his guts. The knife – which he couldn’t remember holding – clattered onto the floor, followed by the _thud_ of his body. Heat and starstuff oozed out of his wounds, stained his lips. Someone knelt next to him. A hand cupping his cheek. A thumb caressing his lip, gathering the blood, so reverently and lovingly it made his heart _ache_ more than any other part of his body.

He smiled.

He woke up.

Will had sweated through his t-shirt, his boxers, and his sheets. He’d actually been able to get a couple of decent nights’ sleep this week, so he’d neglected to lay down a towel. The house was quiet. He’d dropped the dogs off last night because he knew he had a job in the morning. Shanghai. The briefing. _Shit_.

He swung his legs out of his bed and peeled off his top as he walked to the bathroom. He’d deal with his erection in the shower.

\---

Will peered around the door and breathed a sigh of relief. Brian and Jimmy glanced up from the magazine they were reading, and lowered their eyes in perfect unison. Beverly raised her eyebrows at him from behind her Starbucks takeaway cup. The meeting room was otherwise blissfully empty.

‘Thought you might be Jack,’ Jimmy said, turning over a page of _Tattlecrime_.

Will parked his small suitcase near the coat hanger, hung up his jacket, and took a seat next to Beverly.

‘But you’re not,’ Brian supplied, flipping the page back to finish reading an article. Jimmy shrugged and let his eyes scan over the gory pictures. Will looked away. Crime tabloids made him queasy.

‘He messaged us a couple minutes ago. Him and the others are stuck because of all the security. He keeps telling them he’s a pilot and he’s got to get to briefing, but they won’t bump him up the line.’ Beverly took a sip of her coffee. ‘Me and the wonder twins got here early enough to speed through all of that. Did you get held up?’

Will nodded. The day had gotten off to a bad start and the scores of heavily armed police officers checking ID all around the airport had only made him more anxious. The large, menacing semiautomatics cradled in their arms made him acutely aware of where the holster used to keep his Glock snug against his chest. He cleared his throat.

‘What’s _with_ all the cops?’ he asked.

Three pairs of eyes widened.

‘You haven’t heard?’ Brian asked.

‘You haven’t _seen_?’ Jimmy continued.

‘I didn’t get to check the news,’ Will felt a tinge of apprehension at the base of his skull. ‘What –‘

Before he could finish, Brian purposefully flipped through _Tattlecrime_ until he found the right page.

‘It’s pretty fucked up,’ he warned, just as he turned the magazine to display the pictures.

A glossy double-page spread, much fancier than _Tattlecrime_ ’s usual quality, with two colour photographs. One of them took up most of the first page, in high definition to allow readers a detailed view of the grisly scene. It was a picture of the art installation across the road from Baltimore/Washington International Airport; a great flock of geese, folded, origami-like, out of sheets of strong steel, mounted on poles to simulate flight.

A man lay on top of the birds, on his side, with only a red cloth draped around his hips, one knee bent toward the camera, one leg tucked behind the other. His right arm was stretched out, hand delicately positioned towards another sculpture.

The man’s severed head rested on the metal goose just out of reach, facing his body. His lids were open unnaturally wide, likely stapled back, revealing dark, glistening hollows where his eyes used to be. Wine-coloured tears flowed thickly down his cheeks, dripping down onto the grass below. There were no signs of trauma on any part of the body, none of the usual discolorations and hematomas. The corpse was uniformly pale and flawless.

The second, smaller picture was a candid photograph of the man, alive, smiling bashfully at the camera. Looking directly into the lens. Tom Blake was his name. Will’s heartbearts battered like hail inside his chest as he peered into Blake’s face, flickered back to the gaping holes in the post-mortem image. He felt guilty. Guilty he was glad those eyes had been gouged out, so he didn’t have to look into his lifeless pupils. Guilty that he couldn’t look away. _Fuck_.

Will shut his eyes tightly, severing the connection his treacherous mind was trying to form with… the victim? The murderer? The phantom pistol returned to Will’s left side, and he absently moved his hand to cover it.

He heard Jimmy sigh. ‘Maybe give him a little warning next time.’

‘Seriously, Zeller,’ Bev scolded, ‘not cool.’

‘He used to be a cop! I figured he’d be okay!’ Brian protested. He spoke again when he noticed Will’s eyes were still closed, more tentative. ‘You’re okay, right?’

The scene was imprinted on his mind. Seeing only darkness didn’t help – if anything, no visual distractions just made conjuring up visions of the corpse that much easier. Will blinked a few times, nodded, swallowed the bitter spit that had flowed into his mouth.

‘Yeah. I’m fine.’

‘Good.’ Brian was uncertain, his eyebrows knitted.

Will’s hands were damp, with sweat or with blood, and moved them under the table to wipe them on his jeans. ‘Do they, uh, know who did it?’

‘Nope,’ Jimmy was rolling the magazine into a tube, tightening and relaxing it as he spoke. ‘No clues yet. They’re stumped as to how the body got there in the first place, so near the airport and all. There’s meant to be cameras, guards, people walking around.’

‘Guess that’s why they’re going overkill on the cops now,’ said Brian. ‘Making up for fucking up.’

‘Yeah, and the chief inspector said something about not being able to rule out terrorism,’ Beverly scoffed, crossing her arms. ‘Never mind that no one’s claimed responsibility. Kinda counterintuitive to terrorise people and then be coy about it.’

‘It’s a post-9/11 world, baby,’ Jimmy whacked the table with _Tattlecrime_ for emphasis and let it slowly uncurl from its rolled-up shape, revealing the crumpled cover picture of dripping blood overlaid on the city’s skyline and GOOD MOURNING BALTIMORE!! in size 72 text. ‘If this’d happened back when I started out, they’d be blaming it on the Satanists. It’s just whatever’s trendy.’

‘Satanists’d make more sense, though,’ Brian rested his chin on his hand. ‘Looks pretty ritualistic.’

‘It’s very clean,’ said Will. A pause. ‘I mean, his eyes are bloody, but there’s no signs of a struggle, no superficial wounds. And the perp can’t have had much time, not so near an airport. So how?...’

‘Don’t think about it,’ Bev leaned back on her chair, balancing on the two back legs. ‘It’ll just make you worry.’

‘It’s gonna be front page news for the next month anyway.’ Brian collected the rumpled magazine and bent it convexly, straightening it a little. ‘Follow the investigation from the comfort of your home! Find the hidden clues! Win a prize!’

‘Good thing we’re getting outta here,’ Beverly sighed. ‘Hope it’s not the start of a spree.’

Outwardly, Will had steadied himself. Even inwardly, he’d wrestled his mind back on track, but he couldn’t help what bubbled below the surface. The itch to see the crime scene, to gaze into the voids of Tom Blake’s head. To feel his cold, waxy skin, the dead weight of his skull. Or, perhaps, its live weight, when it was firmly attached to his body, before he slit the throat from ear to ear, instantly severing layers of muscle and cartilage. Will felt the primal, anguished breaths hotly flowing out of the ruptured trachea, hitting his face with the smell of fear and death. The powerful spray of the carotid arteries and jugular veins would have badly stained his clothes and hair if he hadn’t been wearing a protective garment – but, as his kill showed, he was careful, he was clean. He was experienced. The body had to be emptied of its blood before he could continue. He knew this. This was his design.

‘What if it isn’t the beginning of a spree?’ Will murmured.

‘Hm?’ Beverly went, standing a few feet away to dispose of her cup.

‘What if it isn’t the beginning of a spree,’ Will repeated, with more confidence, ‘because the killer’s done this befo –‘

The door swung open, narrowly missing Beverly, to let in an enraged Jack Crawford, closely followed by Alana Bloom and a retinue of miscellaneous flight crew.

‘Can you guys believe this?!’ Jack roared, slamming down a copy of _Tattlecrime_ that had clearly been used as a stress-ball. ‘Damn _fools_!’

‘Daddy’s here!’ exclaimed Brian, as he slipped his own crumpled copy of the magazine into his bag.

Jack had angrily hung up his coat and made his way to the front of the room to set up his PowerPoint presentation. He glared at Brian more hatefully than was perhaps necessary.

‘Never call me daddy again. Let’s just get this over with,’ he thundered, forcefully plugging in his memory stick.

Beverly collapsed next to Will in silent hysterics. He was relieved to have been interrupted, hastily burying his law enforcement past in the depths of his mind. He had a new life to focus on, a life he’d had for much longer than his career as a cop. Still, he couldn’t help feeling the incision along his throat for the rest of the meeting.

\---

‘What’s up?’

Will stood against the door of the cockpit, staring at his shoes. It was always a little overwhelming being in here, with the hundreds of flickering buttons and screens and the infinite expanse of sky outside. He clutched the mugs tightly, though shakily, and walked closer to the pilots.

‘Coffee,’ he said, extending a cup to Jack.

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Already?’

‘I’ll take it,’ said the co-pilot, a stranger with bright eyes, a bristly moustache and a strong Scottish accent. ‘Beats what the wife makes, I bet.’

The old man laughed hard at his own comment, and Will noted the strain in Jack’s smile. He knew Jack’s wife was dying of cancer. Will proffered the coffee again, and the pilot finally took it.

‘Why are you really in here?’ he asked. ‘Bad crowd?’

Images of the mutilated body left at Baltimore-Washington International floated faintly in Will’s vision like dark blotches left by bright lights, even as they boarded the plane to Shanghai after the stopover in Dallas/Fort Worth. Graphic nightmares were almost routine, but the sight of this real, grotesque crime scene had brought back memories of his past in New Orleans. The flight was going to be long and dull, but at least he’d have time to zone out and repress his bad thoughts.

But halfway through the safety demonstration, he’d spotted him. Somehow, _somehow_ , he hadn’t seen him come in, hadn’t shown him to his seat, hadn’t put his luggage into the overhead compartment. Right after slipping on the lifejacket, Will had caught a glimpse of a fine suit, and he’d done a double take. An actual double take, straight out of a movie. His worried, watery eyes met a dark gaze peering out from First class, an icy stare mismatched with a serene smile.

Hannibal. Again.

Will had hoped for it, of course. He’d wanted to see him again, in the same abstract way he hoped every flight he was on would crash and burn everyone on board into charcoal. It was the sort of hope meant to remain theoretical. Bitter chocolate flooded his taste buds, and he quickly looked down at the ridiculous yellow vest hanging around his neck.

Hannibal knew he’d killed someone. He’d _told_ Hannibal he’d killed someone. That was okay. It was a confession made to someone he’d never see again, made in the throes of migraine nausea. Hannibal was supposed to take that knowledge and disappear with it, carrying a piece of Will’s conscience away in a haze of cologne and mystery. He wasn’t supposed to be here again. Not for _real_. What would he ask now? What _else_ was Will going to have to remember?

He babbled through the instructions on autopilot, folded the emergency materials away, and went about his usual duties with the dread of a new conversation hanging over his head.

It hung over him when he took First class meal orders, weighing heavily on the top of his scalp as he approached a certain seat. But Hannibal had just politely declined food and gone back to his book. The dread returned when Will had been handing out moist towelettes while his colleagues cooked the meals, but again, Hannibal had simply taken one, thanked him, and made no further comment. Will couldn’t shake his feelings off completely, but as the evening progressed, they mostly turned into confusion. Had Hannibal forgotten him? The gaze had felt too direct to be an accident, too intense. He didn’t understand. He needed to clear his head, cleanse his thoughts of death and blood and mutilation. Beverly and Jimmy had left the flight at the stopover in Dallas, Alana was somewhere in Economy, Brian wouldn’t understand and the rest of the crew were complete strangers.

So he had made two mugs of coffee and sought refuge in the sanctum of the cockpit.

‘Bad crowd tonight?’ Jack repeated, not as harshly. The co-pilot stared dumbly. Will knew he’d ask Jack about him as soon as he’d left.

‘Something like that.’ A shrug. ‘How are things here? All good?’

Jack quirked his lip. ‘You’d notice if they weren’t. I’m alright for the next couple hours.’ He drank from the cup Will had brought him. ‘The coffee’ll help. If you keep me fuelled up, maybe I can take this beauty all the way to China on my own steam.’

‘Wouldn’t mind that!’ crowed the co-pilot. ‘I’ll take any paid holiday I can get!’

‘Ha!’ Jack laughed ruefully. ‘Management won’t even give me the time off to take care of Bella. She’s having to drive _herself_ to chemo most days. Cheap bastards.’

‘Cheap bastards,’ Will agreed.

‘Cheap bastards,’ said the old man.

This prompted a heated conversation about the inefficacy of flight workers’ unions that only required that Will make a noise of agreement every once in a while, making it the perfect moment for a quick mental vacation. Gooseflesh covered his arms. Even these massive planes were not impervious to the freezing air of the stratosphere, and the short sleeves of his uniform didn’t afford much protection against the cold that hung around the cabin, even into the cockpit. He crossed his arms to rub his hands on his skin, absently twirling short arm hairs between his fingers as the pilots’ voices drifted off.

Will missed his dogs. He missed how uncomplicated life was when they were in his home, a ragtag pack of mutts and purebreds discarded for a wrong colour, an allergy, an attitude problem. The living heat that covered his bed as they slept anchored him, kept the darkness at bay – and when a terror did surface in his slumber, the snoozing furry mounds dotted around his house reminded him of what was real, what was _there_. Their love was unconditional and they would follow him to the ends of the Earth if they had to, but they couldn’t. And that was that. Selfishly, Will hoped that right now, as the dogs were trooping back into his neighbour’s house after a day of sniffing out vermin and rolling in dust and grass, they would think of him, and miss him too.

Will sighed. He’d been away from the cabin for a good fifteen minutes now. These long-haul flights were quiet at the best of times, and they had left at night. Most of the passengers should be asleep by now. With a quick goodbye and a wave, he opened the door and stepped back into his territory.

The cabin was dimly lit now. Only two or three lights dotted the aisles, one of which illuminated Hannibal’s seat. Hannibal’s face was unflatteringly lit by the light above, but he retained an ethereal dignity, a chameleonic but heavy presence. Who was he? It was embarrassing how little will had asked, how much he’d revealed.

As he got closer, Will saw that Hannibal’s eyelids twitched in REM sleep. Clearly an expert traveller, he had packed away the top two parts of his three-piece suit and changed into a cashmere sweater that insulated him from the ambient temperature without making it too hot. A plaid blanket lay pooled at his feet, recently slipped off his legs. Will checked the time. They had another eight hours before landing. Plenty of time for a fallen blanket to undo the effects of the sweater and invite in a nasty cold.

He crouched and pulled the cover back up, carefully laying it over Hannibal’s lap, and glanced up to see that the man was looking down at him.

Startled, Will drew back, nervously adjusting his glasses. ‘Hi, Mr Lecter. I thought you were asleep.’

‘Hello, Will,’ Hannibal’s voice was a little gravelly, and he cleared his throat. ‘I dozed off, briefly.’

His hair was as perfectly styled as it had been last time. How he kept himself looking so unrumpled was a mystery.

‘Did I wake you up? Sorry about that. I just wanted to help with the…’ he gestured towards the blanket, ‘… the thing, because of the cold.’

Hannibal looked down with a little smile, rubbing the material of the cover between his thumb and forefinger. ‘Thank you. I’m a light sleeper. Your presence already roused me, your touch just finished the job.’

‘Er,’ a prickle of embarrassment ran along Will’s jaw, ‘my presence?’

‘A heightened sense of smell if a peculiarity of mine.’ Hannibal’s eyebrows were raised in a mix of self-deprecation and pride. ‘I knew it was you before I was fully conscious.’

‘Oh. Do I –‘

‘Your scent is fine. It’s not a reflection on you, merely one of nature’s poisoned gifts.’ A pause. ‘I suppose you know all about those, too.’

He did.

‘I was hoping you would come speak with me,’ Hannibal continued.

 ‘Well, I didn’t want to bother you,’ Will half lied. ‘You didn’t call, so I guessed you were busy, or you didn’t remember me. Or something.’

‘You seemed preoccupied. Like you, I did not wish to intrude. If you are free now, however, perhaps we can talk a while.’

Will cast a look around the slumbering cabin, spotted no colleagues or passengers in dire straits, and gingerly settled down next to his companion. First class seats were self-contained microcosms, with plenty of personal space. It was easier to sit here than right next to Hannibal.

‘I feel like I ought to tell you I’m not _actually_ terrible at my job,’ Will joked. ‘First I… _disassociate_ next to you, and today I guess I’m walking around looking like I’m at a funeral. I thought I was doing okay. Got my eight hours, had some boring granola, listened to a podcast on my way to work.’

‘Your outward presentation is exemplary, don’t worry. The clues are in the details. I’m an observant man.’

‘Smell _and_ sight, huh? And judging by your cooking, you’ve got taste down too. A triple threat.’

‘Honing all the senses allows one to better appreciate the finer things in life. I like to think I’m able to indulge myself to the fullest extent.’

Will breathed out a small laugh. ‘It’s refreshing hearing someone be so honest about their hedonism.’

‘A dull life is a life wasted,’ Hannibal mused. ‘Thankfully, this will not be a problem for either of us.’

‘Right.’ Something about how he’d said it had irked Will. True, his life hadn’t been dull, but the implication that his experiences had been entertaining – _fun_ – was wrong. ‘What is it that you do, Mr Lecter?’

‘I was a doctor. Now, I work in finance.’

A doctor. Will’s stomach kneaded itself like bread dough. ‘Finance, huh? From saving people’s lives to bleeding them dry.’

Hannibal’s lip quirked at the joke. ‘I am used to a certain lifestyle. I wish to retain it. Playing the stock market is a simple way of doing so. One need only be vaguely attentive to make a significant profit.’

‘I’m sure.’ Will thought of how to ask the question burning inside him. ‘When you were a doctor, was that when you…’

‘Killed someone,’ the reply was curt. ‘In surgery. Yes.’

‘Ah. Is that why you… gave it up?’

Hannibal’s next response was not as immediate. ‘Yes. I believed I had prepared myself for the death of a patient. I knew it was a certainty in my career path.’ Will heard a sigh. ‘I was not prepared for the feelings it would elicit.’

Knowing he’d killed someone during surgery was disappointing. Will knew it was a terrible thing to think, but he couldn’t help it. Hannibal had been in the process of saving a life, of doing something unequivocally _good_. Death was an inevitability in medicine, a sad side-effect of the pursuit for medical knowledge, or the consequence of a lack thereof. Death was an inevitability in crime prevention, too, especially with the messy cases he’d dealt with back in Louisiana. But as for being unequivocally good... he’d waded through the minds of violent psychopaths and tragic victims of circumstance alike, skirting between evil and inexplicable. Hannibal’s situation being so morally straightforward made him envious.

‘I’m sorry,’ Will murmured. ‘I know what it’s like.’

‘I know.’ Hannibal’s voice was kind, genuine. Will heard a crinkling noise, what sounded like a paper bag being pulled out of Hannibal’s carry-on case. ‘I hope the situation at the airport has not affected you too much.’

Of course he’d heard. ‘It’s been a weird day. A weird week, or couple of weeks. The man I killed in New Orleans, he keeps… showing up. In my sleep. In my skin.’ He grasped his forearm tightly, digging his nails in to solidify himself in the now. ‘I mean, I can’t ever _forget_ him. But lately, I always feel like I’ve just pulled the trigger. It’s been like that since… since the day we first spoke, actually. I dreamt about it the night before we met, about him slitting his daughter’s throat. That’s why I wasn’t feeling great.’

‘Did you dream about him last night?’

Will nodded. He dug his nails in deeper. ‘In a way. I remember how I shot him. I remember where each bullet hit. And in my dream, I was…’ Sweat beaded on his forehead. He let go of his arm and ran his hand over his face, pressing hard on his eyelids with his fingers until colourful shapes danced in front of him. ‘It was jarring, seeing the crime scene so unexpectedly. I saw the pictures, in Tattlecrime? I hadn’t seen anything like that since…’

‘Louisiana?’ Hannibal said.

Will had been in the papers, after New Orleans. It was such a high-profile case; he might have made the national news. He hadn’t checked. Did Hannibal know? Will let go of his face. The shapes were bright white in his vision, fading fast but plainly visible against the black mirror of the screen mounted into the seat in front of him. He nodded.

‘Yeah. Louisiana.’

A few moments passed before Hannibal spoke. ‘I saw the photographs in Tattlecrime as well. I believe they were the only publication to get clear pictures.’ Soft chewing sounds. He was eating what looked like small dumplings, pale and plump. ‘It was a remarkable tableau.’

‘A tableau?’

‘Do you think that is the wrong term?’ He popped another dumpling in his mouth.

‘No, I just hadn’t thought of it that way.’ The scene materialised in Will’s mind. The morning air was cool against his skin, full of the scent of dew and decay. In its bloodless state, the body looked carved out of marble, the effect enhanced by the crimson cloth over his hips, the streaks on his face. One hand stretched so delicately towards his own head, so close to touching it. ‘Tableau seems too positive, like the whole thing is _artistic._ ’

‘You don’t believe it is?’

Heartbeat. ‘Excuse me?’

‘It was a horrific crime. There is absolutely no denying that. Still, it was executed with some sensibility, don’t you think?’

‘Sensibility? The man was missing his _head_.’ Will’s world was swaying now, almost spinning. Rapidly, he directed his eyes towards his lap, staring at the back of his hands. He remembered bloody saliva, life gurgling out of a throat split wide open. It was true. It looked so much like a Renaissance piece. The care with which the corpse had been cleaned and placed. Bile on his tongue. ‘It doesn’t sound right.’

‘The victim, Tom Blake. You saw his picture in the article, didn’t you?’

‘Yeah.’ The guy’s eyes had stood out. Out of synch with his friendly smile.

‘They media have been exposing his past. He represented his college in sporting competitions. Football, I believe. He had recently won a court case against a young woman. She had accused him of severe domestic abuse. Others spoke out against him, almost half a dozen. He still walked free.’

‘I didn’t know about that,’ Will said. Tom Blake’s empty eye sockets gleamed in the light of dawn. ‘Still.’

‘Still,’ Hannibal replied. He extended the open bag of food, and spoke before Will could refuse. ‘You’re prone to migraines, especially under duress, and we have several hours left on this journey. You must stabilise your blood sugar. This will help.’

Hesitantly, Will reached into the bag and took out a small dumpling. The filling was tart, some sort of berry compote, but there was a sweet aftertaste enhanced by another, subtle flavour that he couldn’t place.

‘What’s in this?’ he asked, chewing thoughtfully.

‘Homemade lingonberry preserves, mixed with a small amount of pig’s blood.’ Will stopped chewing. The juices sank to the bottom of his mouth. ‘It gives the mixture an added taste.’

‘It’s delicious,’ Will said, earnestly, though with some difficulty. ‘What’s it called?’

‘ _Šaltnosiukai_ ,’ the word sounded perfect in Hannibal’s voice, the accent finally slotting into place, ‘a traditional Lithuanian dish. The blood is an addition on my part, inspired by Finnish blood pancakes.’ His smile was genuine, reaching the corners of his eyes. ‘The name means “cold noses.” It seemed an appropriate dish for the frigid climate of an airplane cabin.’

‘I won’t insult you by trying to pronounce it.’ Will swallowed his mouthful, a fat lump of unease. ‘Thank you.’

‘Any time.’

Will’s watch vibrated on his wrist. His break. He flexed his hands and stood up, holding on to the chair’s headrest for balance. Any positive effect the dumpling might have had on him had been thrown out of whack by the revelation of its ingredients, and he felt powerfully dizzy.

‘Are you clocking off?’ Hannibal was looking up at him. His eyes were bright in the dim area, impenetrable as always.

‘Yeah. Can’t wait to take a break from sitting around and eating gourmet European food.’

He dithered, but offered an open hand. They shook.

‘You’ve been awake for a long time. I hope you have a peaceful respite.’ Hannibal’s palm was surprisingly rough, contrasting with his stylish, put-together appearance. It must be all that cooking.

Will smiled tentatively. ‘It was good to see you again, Mr Lecter. See you soon. Maybe next time I’ll be able to carry on a normal conversation.’

‘I believe we’ve been doing just that. Goodbye, Will.’

As easily as he had opened up, Hannibal closed himself off again, redirecting his attention to his thick book, heavily annotated. Something by Hobbes.

Will could still taste the stewed blood and lingonberries as he made his way up the ladder to rest.

\---

Pulled up in a bun, Alana’s hair looked compact and proper. It was always something of a shock seeing it cascade down her slender neck, framing her pretty face. She pulled her brush through it, teasing out the tangles that had formed in the hours she had had it tied. Will lazily combed his locks with his hand. When it was as short as it was now, his hairstyle seemed to naturally acquire a neat parting no matter what he did with it.

‘Lithuania?’ Alana said.

‘Lithuania.’

‘Lithuania…’ she mumbled. ‘It’s a tiny country. Three million people, maybe less. It’s pretty remarkable to have met a Lithuanian on here, especially twice.

‘Yeah,’ Will pulled his blanket over his bare legs. The Crew Rest Compartment was a tiny space above the main cabin, just tall enough to crawl around in. Several beds lay in indentations on the floor, separated by curtains on railings. The mattresses were glorified cardboard, covered in more pillows than any one man could use at a time. If Will curled up with a few of them near his head, he could almost pretend he was at home with his dogs. ‘He keeps feeding me.’

‘Feeding you?’

‘Soup. Chocolate. Weird Lithuanian dumplings. All homemade and perfect.’

‘You’re complaining about getting decent dinners?’ Alana smoothed her dark hair with both hands and pulled it through a scrunchie to make a ponytail. ‘My heart bleeds for you.’

‘I’m not complaining, I’m just not used to it. Getting presents from passengers.’ He shifted, then lay down, barely fitting into his tiny cot. ‘And the things he says, the way we talk. It feels… intimate. Is it normal?’

‘Maybe he’s a social butterfly. Or he’s really lonely. Or he wants to sleep with you.’ She settled down in her own bunk and lowered a sleeping mask over her eyes.

‘I don’t think so. I don’t know. I guess it does happen a lot.’

The incestuous streak in the flight industry was sizeable and rich, infinite permutations of intercourse between jetlagged crew and passengers in exotic locations. Alana herself was a good example. The dark blue monogrammed silk pyjamas she wore had been a gift from Margot Verger, who had piloted Alana’s first flight and who she’d married almost a year ago.

‘No, I don’t think so. He’s playing the long game if he wants to sleep with me.’

‘It’s because you’re worth it,’ Alana whispered in a sing-song voice.

‘We’ve only met on flights, anyway. There’s not a lot of places we could make it happen.’

‘You’re in a bed right now.’ There was a quiet _thump_ as Alana’s hands dropped onto her mattress for emphasis.

Will wrinkled his nose. ‘Here? I’m pretty sure Bev got pinkeye in a CRC. They’re gross. No one actually has sex in them.’

‘You’ve clearly never slept next to Jimmy and Brian.’

He snorted. A noise of protest came from somewhere in the room, from a random colleague being kept up by chatter. Will rolled onto his side and propped a few pillows against his back, half to keep him from moving too much, half for the comfort of a presence behind him. The blanket was almost over his head.

‘He’s just so different,’ he said, almost reverently. ‘I can’t figure him out.’

‘Maybe he’s shy,’ Alana whispered dryly, ‘or he’s lonely. Or whatever. Sleep tight, Will.’

‘Goodnight, Alana.’ Will’s eyelids were drooping already. He was anxious. He needed this rest, but he knew he’d have nightmares. Slumbering in the sky, dreams seemed to become exponentially more bizarre; he truly didn’t know what to expect. But he was _so tired_.

He thought he heard a murmur from an adjoining bed, and then he was gone.

\---

Luminescent blood hiccupped out of Will’s wounds with each heartbeat. More blood than any one man could have. He was on the ground again, bullet-riddled and cold, gazing out into the darkness of a defunct airplane cabin. Will coughed, spat out neon droplets. His throat felt raw.

A hand on his face, tenderly gliding over stubble. Will groaned as he was pulled into a sitting position, soaked shirt sticking to clammy skin, sobbing in agony as the holes in his torso stretched and folded with his movements. He groped blindly where the person holding him should have been, grasping emptiness. 

A strong arm wrapped around his midsection, while fingertips trailed down his chest until they reached the wound on the right of his sternum. Every inch of his body tensed when those soft fingers tore his shirt open further, began circling the bullet hole like sharks in open water, inching towards the opening. His mouth dropped open in a silent scream when he felt the blunt fingertip make contact with the exposed layers of muscle. It forced its way into Will’s flesh, pushing aside pliable tissue in search of _something_ , something he desperately wanted the hand to find. The very notion of his core being touched was so intensely pleasurable he could only let out a lusty moan, eyes rolling back in his head. Another finger burrowed into a different bullet hole, right next to his navel. Breathing heavily, Will opened his eyes, tried to focus through the blur of his myopia and fading consciousness to catch a glimpse of the man touching him like this.

Tom Blake’s empty eyesockets stared back.

\---

Will woke with a gasp. He relaxed his hands, which had been clinging to his bedsheets, and rubbed his eyes hard. Fuck. His knuckles came away from his face wet. He’d sweated through his clothes again. Cold sweat, nothing a towel, some deodorant and a handful of dry shampoo wouldn’t fix. He felt around in the darkness for his carry-on case, and touched cold porcelain.

Confused, he put on his glasses and turned on the little lamp at the head of the bed. A chocolate pastry and a small coffee rested on a plate on top of his suitcase. Alana’s bunk was neatly made and distinctly empty.

‘You’re awesome,’ Will murmured, blowing lightly on the cup before taking a sip. Strong, but with a touch of sweet milk. This was the stuff they gave the yuppies in First. He smiled, downed it in two gulps, and put the pastry between his teeth while he collected the stuff he needed to make himself presentable.

Alana was surprised when he climbed down. Her uniform looked newly pressed, like it had never been taken off and folded, her hair was as bouncy and lustrous as always, and her makeup was flawless. Will looked okay.

‘Hey, you,’ she said, carefully placing cups on a tray. ‘I was about to go wake you up. You sleep alright?’

‘Fine.’

Will started filling the kettles with water in preparation for their upcoming refreshment round. Alana looked him over.

‘You look better than you did before your nap. No nightmares?’

Will shrugged, but gave her a timid smile. ‘The breakfast helped. Thanks for that.’

‘What breakfast?’

She was returning his smile, but her face registered genuine confusion. ‘The cake and coffee?’ Will pointed down at the plate and cup he’d dropped in the sink. She shook her head.

‘That wasn’t me. I just got down here. Maybe one of the boys?’

Will stared down at the water gushing from the tap. ‘I think Brian’s still up there. Jimmy got off in Dallas.’

‘Ooh, Will Graham, you’ve got a secret admirer!’ Alana chuckled. She took the full kettles from the sink and switched them on, started looking for the coffee beans.

‘Yeah,’ he mumbled. ‘Guess I do.’


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: I cleaned up the grammar of this chapter on 22/12/2016.

Heathrow’s cavernous architecture made Will feel very small. He pulled his suitcase along the length of the terminal, cradling the drinks he’d purchased at M&S in one arm. It was one o’clock in the morning and every other store in the airport was closed until at least five, so he’d had to buy supplies in bulk. Small groups of people lay few and far between, huddled on the floor in semi-private corners and around electrical outlets, using their jackets as makeshift blankets, looking like the world’s most pathetic refugee camp.

Will settled down at a booth in one of the airport’s closed cafés and looked out of the glass walls at the snowstorm raging outside.

It had been snowing steadily for a few days, but the fierce blizzard had taken everyone by surprise. Alana and Beverly left minutes after the flight to Toronto was delayed until the next day. They were on duty for the trip and needed to get to the nearest crash pad before the rest of the stranded crew got there. Will decided to stay put. Crash pads weren’t great at the best of times – shabby buildings converted to cheaply house as many crewmembers as possible on overnight stopovers – and they were absolute hell in a weather crisis. Between holing up in a musty attic with thirty strangers or brute-forcing a white night at the airport, the choice was obvious.

And this way, he could put off the nightmares a little longer.

He cracked open a can of Red Bull, watched it fizz and spit brown drops onto the polished wood table top. In the month since the carrion of Tom Blake had been found, Will’s dreams had gotten worse. The artfully arranged scene mixed with memories of New Orleans to form freshly aberrant scenarios. He’d alternately play the victim and the executioner: rushing into the apartment with a knife instead of his gun, to stab his man’s eyes to a mess of ground meat; being strung up with his head down and feeling a blade slice across his throat, almost tenderly, until blood flowed freely down his face and into his mouth, his nose, his eyes; gasping on the floor, bleeding from a constellation of gunshot wounds, eagerly welcoming death when a sharp pain at the back of his neck started sawing through skin and bone to separate his head from his torso.

Hannibal was so often there.

As the slaughterer. As an observer. A few times, hauntingly, as the victim of Will’s orphic crimes. Regardless of roles, what scared him most was the unmistakable serenity with which they accepted their fate from each another.

Will gulped down as much of the energy drink as he could, until his gag reflex set in and he coughed, sugary liquid painfully invading his nose. He didn’t want to fall asleep, not yet, not tonight. It would be even worse, even more sordid, because it had happened again.

Another murder tableau, this time in a London borough.

Alana had smoothly manoeuvred his attention away from the newspaper headlines trumpeting the crime in English, Polish, Spanish, French. Will knew he had to keep away from it all. His new life didn’t warrant any morbid research. He’d done a good job of it for almost ten years.

And yet, as soon as he saw his friends off, he walked to the nearest shop on autopilot and purchased the seediest, most explicit tabloid he could find.

Now, hidden away in a deserted café with dozens of drinks to keep him alert, he was going to read it. Tremulously, he poked a straw into an iced coffee, took a small sip to wash away the taste of Red Bull, and retrieved the rag from where it was burning a hole in his coat pocket.

Her name was Anna Sowa. A pretty Polish girl wrapping up a postgraduate degree at the London School of Economics. In the first photograph, she was reclining on the steps of a church, naked, one leg casually crossed over the other, left hand modestly covering the space between her thighs. Her head lolled to one side, shoulders brushed by wisps of ginger hair that had unravelled from a braid that circled her head like a tiara. Additional photographs, taken from different angles, showed the hole that had been cut out of her skull, bordered by the braid. Her brain had clearly been interfered with, and the reason was obvious: in her right hand, Anna Sowa held her own excised tumours in the iron grip of rigor mortis. In the accompanying article, Will read that her eyes and tongue had been taken.

He sucked cool coffee into his mouth, left sweet residue on his lips where he licked them. The next page contained pictures of the girl alive; receiving her undergraduate diploma with a bright, winning smile; posing humorously with a wax figure at Madame Tussaud’s; candidly gazing into the camera with tired eyes. Will brought the paper close to his face, until he could almost see the individual dots making up the images. He flipped between the post-mortem spread and the other photos, trying to connect this lively woman and the martyr on the stairs.

Had she known about the cancer consuming her mind? The article was sensationalist trash, not worth the paper it was printed on, and it didn’t address changes in behaviour, trips to the hospital, anything interesting. More than ever, Will wanted to be at the scene, to sink back into the mind of the perpetrator, to feed her the potion that let him trepan her without resistance and root around inside her head for the toxic truffles of her illness. To make her beautiful.

Will put the paper down, heart in his throat. No. Not beautiful. Maimed. _Murdered._

His eyes itched with sleep and he fiercely rubbed them with the side of his hand. This was done by the Baltimore perp. It was obvious. The exhibitionist nature of the crime, the _sensible_ touch, the gruesome violence executed so clinically – so why didn’t the article mention it _?_ He dropped his forehead against his tented fingers. It didn’t make sense. Had no one else noticed? Was he grasping at straws, for feelings he’d sworn to abandon? Gunshots sounded in the back of his mind, faintly, unmistakeably.

‘I shouldn’t have done this,’ he murmured, taking off his glasses. The pictures blurred enough to appear hypnagogic. Will smiled despite himself. Even his reality had a dreamlike quality.

‘Good evening, Will.’

He flinched at the sound of a voice that wasn’t his own, recognising it instantly. Hannibal held a folded Burberry coat over one arm. He wore a fine sweater over a polo shirt and jeans in a casual interpretation of his refined style. A large black suitcase stood beside him.

‘Hannibal,’ Will mouthed. He could almost feel the colour drain from his face. It had been years since he’d had a real, honest-to-god hallucination. The monsters had been corralled into nightmares, headaches, disassociations; they hadn’t escaped like this since he left the force. He squeezed his eyes shut. No. The man in front of him was real. He had to be real. Will cleared his throat. His pulse remained high.

‘Sorry, Mr Lecter. I, uh, I wasn’t expecting you. Or anyone, really.’

‘I thought I saw you and I had to check. I apologise if I frightened you.’ He looked at Will kindly and shook his hand. He _felt_ real. ‘“Hannibal” is fine. I should hope we’ve reached first-name basis by now. Plus, you’re not in your uniform. Currently, you’re a civilian.’

‘I’ve been a civilian for a while now.’

Hannibal nodded. ‘That you have. Pardon my phrasing.’ He draped his coat over the back of a chair, took a seat across the table from Will, and laced his fingers together. ‘It’s remarkable to meet you here.’

‘Remarkable’s right,’ said Will with a sigh. Meeting Hannibal outside the confines of an aircraft made him nervous. ‘Are you here for work?’

‘Yes, just tying things up with a couple of clients, although I have to admit I always mix business with pleasure when in London. I was able to see the Malevich exhibition at the Tate Modern, and I got good tickets for The Barber of Seville at the Royal Opera House. This production features a singer I have a great deal of admiration for. If I’d known you were here, I would have invited you.’

‘I don’t think operas are really my thing.’ Will sipped the last of his coffee.

‘Have you been to one?’

‘No, but they seem… overwhelming. All the formalities about dressing up, sitting with so many people for so long, the emotional singing, it all sounds exhausting.’

‘It can be,’ Hannibal said sympathetically, ‘but it is beautiful.’

Will smiled sardonically. ‘I’m not sure I’ve seen enough beauty to _recognise_ it, let alone appreciate it.’

Out of the corner of his eye, Will caught a glimpse of the headline advertising Anna Sowa’s demise. Hannibal followed his line of sight to the magazine, then looked back at his face.

‘Even if that were true, fixing this problem is easy and fun. All it takes is exposure to more beauty. Maybe next time we both fortuitously get stuck in London.’

Will opened a can of Monster, fighting the urge to let his eyelids droop. The other man’s voice was low and rumbly, like a faraway storm in the frosty night. It made him want to lay his head down and ignore the parts of his brain telling him to be afraid. He took a drink. ‘If you don’t mind sitting in the cheap seats with the rabble.’

‘Art makes us equal.’

The statement was funny coming from a businessman decked head to toe in luxury brands, but it was said so genuinely that Will had to accept he meant it. It was true that Hannibal had treated him with respect – at least, it seemed like he cared about what Will said. What he thought.

‘I’m guessing you’ve been held up by the snow?’

‘That’s right.’ Hannibal unzipped the front pouch of his case and extracted a sketchbook and a small pencil case. ‘If I found a suitable hotel with a free room, travelled to it, checked in, and got into bed, I would have about thirty minutes before having to return to go through security.’ Hannibal stopped browsing through his pencils to shoot Will a worldly look. ‘I’m a man of means, but I don’t enjoy spending frivolously.’

‘Probably _why_ you’re a man of means. Did you come from Maryland?’ Hannibal nodded. ‘I just flew in from Asia a couple of days ago. I’m getting the 6:57 to Toronto, then on to the States.’

‘Are you working?’

‘Just Canada to Baltimore. I get to be pampered by Bev and Alana on my way across the Atlantic.’ Will caught himself. ‘They’re, uh, they’re my colleagues.’

‘I know.’ Hannibal smiled.  He was whittling his chosen pencil to a sharp point with a scalpel and noticed his companion gazing at it. ‘I’ll put this in my hold luggage,’ he said, gesturing with the knife.

‘Of course. I didn’t know you drew.’

‘Occasionally.’ He extended his sketchbook. ‘Would you like to have a look?’

The pages were thick and rugged, clearly high-quality and absorbent. Will leafed through them carefully, making sure his skin didn’t touch any of the line art. Most of it was done in grey graphite, layers on layers to create realistic textures, shades, shapes, with the occasional study etched directly in spidery pen strokes. Landscape studies cropped up every so often, some finished with pale watercolours, but Hannibal’s body of work was mostly comprised of people. Many were obvious reproductions of famous Renaissance pieces, drawn so faithfully that Will could recognise individual artists’ styles. Others were portraits. Delicate profiles of women and children, haggard old men with intricate wrinkles and full beards, and two pages of flight attendants.

Price and Zeller were in one corner, pushing the refreshment cart, Jimmy in the middle of one a practiced long-suffering eyeroll. Alana was doing the safety demonstration, holding a rubber oxygen mask over her mouth and nose. Beverly crouched to speak to a child, smiling widely, face framed by beautifully rendered silky hair. Will sat in a First class seat with his hands loosely knitted on his lap, gazing ahead with a barely noticeable smile. His picture was the most detailed, enriched with cross-hatching and tactical erasing. It was achingly melancholic.

‘Is that what I look like?’ he asked, resisting the urge to reach out and smudge his face beyond recognition.

‘What do you think you look like?’

Will took a last look at the drawing, then continued to flip through. ‘Tired.’ A pause. ‘Sad.’

‘Regardless of an artist’s intent, his work will be interpreted based on the viewer’s experiences. Some may see sadness. Others may not.’ Will’s frowned, blinked a few times to get rid of the encroaching sleep.

Hannibal touched the folded tabloid. ‘I wouldn’t have taken you for a fan.’

‘I’m not,’ Will flicked the metal tab on his drink, forward and back, ‘but there was a murder, like in Baltimore. A tableau. None of the other papers had good photos.’ The tab broke off and tipped into the can with a small splash.

‘I’ve heard of the murder, but I’ve not seen the pictures.’ Slowly, as if asking for permission, Hannibal pulled the magazine toward himself, and, hearing no protest, opened it on the table. Will pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. Although Hannibal looked impassive as he took in the gruesome photos, his eyes glinted with intrigue. He ran his fingertips over the full-body shot of the reclining cadaver. ‘This is Titian.’

‘Titian?’

Hannibal took his phone out of his pocket and tapped a few words into Google.

‘She looks just like Titian’s Venus of Urbino,’ he said, turning the screen to show Will a Renaissance-era painting of a nude young woman reclining on a bed, legs casually crossed at the knee, one hand covering her pubic area, the other clutching flower petals. Wisps of hair escaping the braid atop her head, falling on her shoulders. Placed side by side, it was obvious the poses were identical.

‘He copied this,’ Will murmured, eyes darting from one picture to the other, ‘he’s making a statement.’

Suddenly, the scent of copper filled his nose and mouth, and he looked down to see his hands covered in thin latex gloves, gently pulling apart a fresh cut in Anna Sowa’s brain to reveal the first of many tumours. He shut his eyes and rubbed them hard, keeping his hand in place as if to push the thoughts away.

‘The other guy, Tom Blake. His pose looked just like a painting too, didn’t it?’ He couldn’t slip now, he didn’t want to fall into the mind of a killer, not when he was so tired. He couldn’t afford to disassociate and lose time, or worse, _sleepwalk_ around the empty airport for God knows how long. _Fuck_.

‘Yes. The Creation of Adam.’

Hannibal’s smooth voice cleaved through Will’s delusion, clearing it so rapidly he almost gasped, blinking as he readjusted to the ambient light. The snow outside showed no signs of relenting. Hannibal had opened one of Will’s coffees and was gently pushing it into his hand. ‘It might be a copycat killing.’

‘No, it’s too _good_ ,’ Will drank in big mouthfuls, eager to flush away the remaining taste of blood, ‘there’s, there’s craftsmanship in them, something like a signature style. How could people not notice the connection? Because it’s across different countries?’

‘Perhaps they have noticed and have chosen not to discuss it.’

‘Could be.’ He put the bottle down and closed the magazine, wary of seeing the images again. ‘Why Titian? Why Michelangelo?’

‘Renaissance artists believed that as God was in man, man was God.’ Hannibal flipped through his book to find a blank page, tapping the pencil on the table. ‘As they demystified the workings of the human body, they began to feel powerful and sacred, too. Perhaps this is part of the killer’s message, if he has one.’

He started loosely sketching Will’s face. Will rested his head on his fist, trying to make the angle too difficult to draw.

‘He knows he’s god, and since he does, he doesn’t _need_ to show everyone else. This is _for_ someone. It’s a letter, or a beacon. It’s…’ he sighed, frustrated, ‘it makes me wish I could be at the scene. Know what he’s thinking. Pictures aren’t enough.’

The pencil stopped moving. Will looked up, couldn’t help meeting Hannibal’s eyes – and for once, there was a tear in the shroud, a light in the fog. Something inside was reaching out, for _him_. The hairs on the back of Will’s neck stood up.

Of course, the details matched up – Hannibal’s travelling, his background in medicine, his tastes – but he couldn’t start suspecting people around him. He’d left that life behind because it was making him crazy. Crazi _er_. He didn’t want to think about it.

So he severed the eye contact, though he couldn’t swallow the lump in his throat.

‘I shouldn’t be thinking about it so much, I guess. Running myself ragged over nothing.’

But.

Will shifted. A final question nagged him. ‘How did he know she had cancer?’

‘The killer might be a friend.’ Hannibal’s pencil still hadn’t resumed its course. ‘He might be her doctor, or she might have confessed it to him to try and get his sympathy. There are many ways to divine poor health. Some illnesses,’ he put the pencil down now, joined his hands, ‘can even be smelled.’

Hannibal’s nose, like every part of him, seemed sculpted. Will remembered pulling up the blanket, waking Hannibal up with his scent. Every fibre of his body was telling him to cut the conversation, to _go_. Cold sweat trickled down his back. Hannibal was still looking at him. Will stood up, lightly shoving the table into the other man’s torso with his momentum. The world tipped sideways and he staggered back onto the padded seat, bringing one hand to his forehead. Hannibal was at his side now, touching his shoulder.

‘I feel sick.’

Through the glass walls, he saw the blizzard still raging in the night. Hannibal said something, cupped his face. The bottled coffee had tipped over, dripping cold and grainy onto Will’s hand.

He was so tired.

He didn’t dream, not fully. Snippets of his childhood drifted like snowflakes he caught on his tongue, remembering cool popsicles perspiring in oppressive Louisiana summers, scruffy curls blowing in the wind as he jumped and bumped with the fishing gear in the back of his dad’s truck, the softness of his first puppy’s fuzzy pot-belly.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

Will blinked. The ceiling was tiled and low, different from the heights of the terminal. He shielded his eyes from the fluorescent light and wiped away tears.

‘You’re awake!’

Beverly leant over him, dressed in her uniform. They were in some sort of office, maybe a break room. She handed him his glasses.

‘Where’s Hannibal?’ he mumbled, trying to sit up despite the sharp headache drilling into his skull. As if on cue, Bev handed him a plastic cup of water and a couple of aspirin.

‘Oh, he waited here for ages, but he had to catch his flight. You just missed him. He said you basically fainted trying to get up because you were so tired? You’re lucky he was there or you could’ve cracked your head.’ She took her paper cup of coffee from the table in the corner and downed the last of it. ‘We thought about going to a doctor – I mean, it’s free here, so you know – but since you’ve got a shift tomorrow and you don’t like hospitals and you have, uh, this sort of thing happen pretty often, I figured I’d wait and see if you woke up. And you did. Match point for Katz.’

The aspirin were powdery and unpleasant going down his throat. He remembered the drink Hannibal had opened while Will was struggling not to disassociate. His eyes had only been closed a few seconds, but that was plenty of time to put something in it if Hannibal knew what he was doing…

The empty cup crumpled in his grip. He couldn’t think like that. He couldn’t give in to the paranoia. He wasn’t a cop anymore.

‘What time is it?’

‘Half past five, something like that. You weren’t out for long. Might want to go through security pretty soon, though, if you’re feeling okay.’

‘I’ll live,’ he said, standing up carefully. His suitcase was near the door, with the remaining bottled drinks he’d bought tucked in a plastic Fortnum & Mason’s bag, doubtless courtesy of Hannibal. ‘Are you heading out now?’

‘Yeah, we can go together. Alana’s through already, she wanted to meet up with Margot for a Starbucks date.’

After a short bout of bickering about who would carry the luggage, Beverly triumphantly stepped out of the break room with their two wheelie cases in tow, followed by Will, carrying his plastic bag. Only two of the bottles were still full. He’d be able to drink them before they got to security.

‘I’m not gonna faint from the exertion of pulling a twenty-pound suitcase,’ he said, keeping step with Beverly as she loped to the gates. The aspirin was starting to work now, and he could feel his head clearing.

‘Not to be rude, but you fainted from the effort of standing up. I’ll deal with the luggage.’ She grinned and quickly indicated her uniform. ‘It’s my pleasure, Mr Graham.’

Will smiled at her. ‘Thanks, Ms Katz.’

He looked into his bag, deciding what he wanted first, and reached in to grab the Lucozade.

‘Remember when you could bring drinks onto a plane without accidentally outing yourself as a terrorist?’

‘Yeah,’ Beverly dramatically rolled her eyes, ‘but don’t you feel so much safer now?’

His fingers closed around the slim plastic bottle, but they brushed against something else. He shifted the bag’s straps onto his forearm and took out a small, folded piece of paper. The torn page of a sketchbook. On it, Will lay drawn out on the couch of the little break room. His plaid shirt’s sleeves were folded up at the elbow and his hands were on his stomach, almost touching each other. Most of his body was loosely sketched, but his face had been rendered in fine detail; the shadow of stubble, dishevelled hair, eyelashes fanned over dark creases of exhaustion, worry lines creasing his brow even as he slept, lips slightly parted. Underneath the portrait, an elegant line of script.

_Take care, Will. Until next we meet._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the self-insert part of the fic because I once also chose to wait overnight in Heathrow for my early morning flight, but I didn’t get to talk revealingly about my inner demons with a handsome serial killer. I just sat in one spot and watched Arrested Development for 6 hours. That’s my Big Heathrow Story.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a hard time with this one, but I hope it's okay.
> 
> I listened to Desire's [Under Your Spell](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v3LUBKRY4rQ) a lot while writing this. Check it out, maybe!
> 
> Edit: I cleaned up the grammar of this chapter on 22/12/2016.

Will froze, reflexively tightening his grip on the newspaper cart. Hannibal was nonchalantly sitting in the front row of First class. Legs crossed, hands folded on his knee, cool and collected.

He wasn’t supposed to be on this flight.

Will had made sure of it.

When a situation spiralled out of control, as this one clearly had, he found a workaround. It’s what he’d done since childhood.

Years of neglect and abuse from parents and peers alike had taught him to be quietly self-reliant, able to block out nightmares and deflect an anxiety attack. He’d tried to rely on others, for a while. Stretches of his youth were spent leaning on girlfriends, counsellors, pills, and during that time, the night terrors became more infrequent, the loneliness less oppressive. But girlfriends left. Counsellors didn’t understand. Pills made him sleepy and stupid. Ultimately, he was always left alone inside his head, and when the demons returned, they did so with a vengeance.

After the shooting, it all got worse. Nightmares bled into his waking hours, filling lost hours with guilt, gunfire, and so much blood. The longer he kept his job in the force, the more his mind protested, until the waking hallucinations came and he could no longer hide his symptoms behind awkward introversion and endless cups of coffee. He had to go.

So Will had turned to the only person he could trust: himself. He’d picked his life up and moved to Wolf Trap, away from the city and its triggers and people who’d recognise him from the press and the TV. He slowly built up his pack of mutts to stave off the isolation, establish a routine. He learned to ground himself when he started to disassociate, and focus on his breathing to remind himself of what was real. He deliberately pursued a job marked by impermanence and superficiality that let him escape his problems and form only the loosest ties.

He wasn’t happy, but he was functional. That was the main thing. That was what he wanted, what he needed.

What Hannibal threatened.

Will knew they were the same. Hannibal’s monster howled on a Stygian frequency Will was perfectly attuned to, that he knew only a precious few people _could_ hear. Maybe New Orleans had made him like this. More likely, it had merely been the key that unlocked the primal potential inside, because Hannibal’s call sounded like the loveliest birdsong. But recognising their affinity meant acknowledging much more. Things he’d buried for ten years. It meant remembering the dead man on the floor, his daughter staring pleadingly up at Will as her last breaths hissed out of her slit throat in a dusty death rattle. Kneeling by her side to cup her cheek, meaning to comfort her, while her hands spastically grasped the hem of his trousers. Her expression unchanging as he ran his thumb across her lower lip, glistening with blood and spit, and brought it within a hair’s breadth of his own mouth, stopping just before he…

The memory made his whole body throb.

He knew that the creature living inside his skin was growing stronger, angrier, excited by the scent of its kin, and that if he let it out, let _Hannibal_ let it out, he would never be able to reign it in again. The monster had come too close to freedom in New Orleans to miss a second chance.

Something had to be done.

He could call the police, but for what? In truth, he didn’t have any proof of Hannibal’s role in the murders. It was just something he saw in Hannibal’s success, his easy manner, his confidence – Hannibal was so unlike Will because he indulged the beast. And secretly, no matter how nauseous it made him, Will didn’t want to force him to stop. He knew how awful the repression felt.

He could kill the animal within. It was something he’d often thought about, usually when he was sitting on his porch in Virginia in the dead of night, bottle of whiskey in hand. The spitting image of his father. He’d take a deep swig until he couldn’t stand the burn any longer, wipe his mouth with his sleeve. Some were marked from birth to kill their brothers. They had to be stopped. It would be easy to find the shotgun in his closet and put an end to the cycle. No suffering. No loss. But then his dogs would awaken, the sun would rise, the bottle would be empty. Self-preservation invariably won out.

He could run. It had worked in the past. He’d abandoned everything he knew back home, started over, built a Potemkin life. This situation was more manageable, unlike the press firestorm he’d faced in Louisiana. He could limit himself to a lateral move instead of a total transplant.

Stealing the passenger lists was surprisingly easy. The first time had been a rush, something like the stakeouts of old. Sneaking around the airport on a quiet night, clad in his full uniform for easy access all around the site, Will felt oddly calm. He wasn’t a tech genius, but he’d done his research, and once he’d found an impressionable admin worker, retrieving the information he needed was disconcertingly simple.

Instantly, he was struck by the overlap in their future travels. Some of Hannibal’s flights even seemed to take deliberate detours so he could be on Will’s shifts. Like he knew just which trips Will had opted into. And though he travelled alone, he always booked two seats, one next to the other.

Just in case.

Will shook his head and printed the schedules. Contemplating the whys and hows of their relationship was precisely what he wanted to avoid. He had to starve his need, and he knew how to do it: he requested the right hours, avoided certain times and destinations, and made sure to steer clear of the news, especially when he overheard passengers in Moscow talking about a new brutal murder.

For almost two months, it worked. Will felt his psychopomp wither. His nightmares abated, he stopped disassociating, he could allow himself to relax on the job and even go for drinks with his colleagues in Alaska, Buenos Aires, Johannesburg. Things became predictable again. Mundane. Will told himself he preferred it this way.

Yesterday, he’d been getting ready for bed in a tiny Mexico City International Airport hotel room. The television was left on for background noise while he brushed his teeth, zoning out as he listened to voices speaking Spanish too quickly for him to ever understand. Now more than ever, Will avoided silence as much as possible, unwilling to be left alone with his thoughts. The commercial break ended, and he heard the dramatic notes of an evening news report jingle.

He knew he was supposed to turn it off now, before the anchors had time to speak. That’s what he’d been doing so-far.

But he didn’t.

Maybe he’d let his guard down. Spit, rinse, gargle.

Maybe he hadn’t. He grinned widely, checking his teeth in the mirror while the newscaster sped through the night’s headlines, and walked back into the room just in time to catch the first item.

A picture flashed on the screen. A young man with dark curly hair, hands and feet bound with tape, his body embedded into the top of a blue Volkswagen. The corpse had clearly been thrown off the top of an adjacent skyscraper, smashing the car’s roof on impact. A Y-shaped stitched-up wound ran down his torso; his organs had been stolen. Tape covered his eyes and mouth, his brow furrowed as though in troubled sleep. For the first time in two months, Will’s heart hammered in his chest, his tongue stuck to the roof of his dry mouth.

The corpse was arranged exactly like Will was, in the picture Hannibal had left him in London.

_Until next we meet._

The presenter kept speaking, mentioning _narcos_ and _sicarios_ , but Will knew. Though the tableau was so different, the _touch_ felt the same. It was a private message, just for him.

And now, Hannibal was on his flight from Mexico City to Dallas Fort Worth.

Will grasped the handle of his cart tighter. He knew Hannibal could smell his fear.

‘Good evening, Will,’ he said amiably.

‘Good evening, Mr Lecter,’ Will replied coolly. ‘Would you like something to read?’

‘No, thank you.’ He spoke again before Will could move on. ‘It has been a while since our last meeting.’

‘Not that long.’

Hannibal kept scrutinizing Will’s face, smiling in a way that didn’t reach his eyes. ‘About two months since I saw you at Heathrow.’

‘Yeah. Not that long.’ Will stood still for a few moments, staring down at the magazines and newspapers piled on top of his cart. He took a step forward and his stomach bumped into Hannibal’s outstretched hand. The contact didn’t last more than a second, but it was enough for the heat of his palm to permeate the skin of Will’s torso, to leave its invisible mark. Will flushed, sharply turning to Hannibal.

‘The Financial Times.’ The passenger pointed at it, buried at the bottom of the pile. That same vacant smile hadn’t shifted from his face. ‘Please.’

\---

The trays fell with a clatter and a bowl toppled over, spilling leftover dregs of soup onto the counter. Will let out a short sigh. Between a sick baby, demanding old men, and the meal rounds, he’d spent the past two hours rushing from one end of the cabin to the other, and constantly glimpsing Hannibal had kept him firmly on edge. By the time he and Jimmy were collecting trays after lunch, his hands were shaking and he badly needed to be away from everyone else.

Jimmy piled the rest of the crockery beside him while Will wiped the soup stains with a cloth.

‘You alright?’ Jimmy asked.

Will shrugged. ‘I’m fine.’

‘You don’t look it. You _seemed_ fine a couple of days ago, but not anymore.’

‘I’m just tired. I’ve got my week off coming up soon, I’ll rest up then.’

‘That’s nice.’ Jimmy parked the food cart in its little alcove and leaned against the wall, arms crossed. ‘Any plans?’

‘Fishing, maybe. We’ll see. I might want to stay in with the dogs, do a little reading.’

‘Oh, nice. It’s been a couple months since you’ve had that much time off, huh?’

He nodded. ‘Yeah. I miss them.’

‘I bet.’ Jimmy paused, reached out to pat Will on the back, thought better of it, and continued on to the curtain separating them from the main cabin. ‘Look, if you clean up over here and do the announcements, me and the girls’ll take care of the passengers until we get to Texas.’

‘I’m…’ Will resented the implication that he was fragile compared to the rest of the team, but he thought about having to go back out, having to imagine Hannibal’s hands closing around that young Mexican man’s throat, pressing down, slicing him open from collar to pubis to expose insides like pomegranate flesh.

‘I’d appreciate that. Thanks.’

‘Don’t worry about it, buddy.’ Jimmy pulled the curtain aside, momentarily flooding the space with bright lights. ‘We’ll all be home before you know it, and thank Christ for that.’

Then, Will was alone in the dimly lit space between the cockpit and the cabin. So close to either end, but hidden by thin barriers he was too afraid to breach. He shook his head and started wiping the trays with circular motions. Soon, he’d be able to sit down and think about nothing.

He picked up the clean trays and turned to place them to the side, when he was confronted with Hannibal closing the curtain behind him.

‘This is cabin crew only,’ Will blurted out, quickly slotting the trays back into their compartment.

Hannibal smiled absently.

‘Your colleague allowed me access. He seemed relieved when I told him I wanted to speak with you.’

Damn it, Jimmy. ‘What do you want?’

Disappointment flickered across Hannibal’s face. ‘As I said: speak with you.’

‘What’s there to talk about?’ Will faced him fully now, one hand resting on the counter.

‘Everything. We are friends.’

A laugh bubbled up Will’s throat, escaped in a harsh bark: ‘Ha!’

‘You don’t think so?’

‘We’re not friends,’ he was getting angry now. Was he actually hearing this?

‘We’re alike.’

‘We barely even know each other.’

‘Not for lack of trying.’ Hannibal stepped closer, decisively. Will stood his ground. ‘Have you been avoiding me, Will?’

‘There’s a lot of flights out there.’ He lightly shrugged his shoulders. ‘You can’t expect ours to always match up.’

Hannibal further closed the gap between them, and Will could feel his resolve cracking with every moment. Something emanated from the man in front of him, something that made Hannibal’s eyes glimmer and the beast inside Will bristle. Something that excited him.

‘I typically buy my tickets weeks, if not months, in advance,’ his voice was mellifluous, at odds with the raw anger emanating from him, practically piercing Will’s skin, ‘and for a long while now, you have not been on any of those journeys. But I purchased this trip today, cash in hand, minutes before the gates closed, and you happen to be on this particular flight. A remarkable coincidence.’

Will said nothing. Hannibal was close to him now. They had never been so near to each other, and for the first time, he noticed how _big_ Hannibal appeared to be. He wasn’t much taller than Will, barely an inch, and his expensive suits only betrayed a fit but lithe physique, but his presence made him so much larger. Will gripped the counter forcefully, wishing he had kept up with his exercise routine after quitting the force. A haphazard diet and the nature of his current job kept him trim, but his strength wasn’t even close to what it once had been. He wanted the power to match Hannibal, grapple with him.

‘Obtaining passenger details is illegal, isn’t it?’ Hannibal murmured.

‘So’s obtaining air crew schedules,’ Will replied, voice steady despite the flutter in his heart.

The amorphous sounds of conversation filtered through the curtain, but Will could only hear their asynchronous breathing filling the space. Hannibal made a noise inside his throat, something like a chuckle.

‘Have you been reading about our killer?’

‘We’ve been a lot busier than usual. I haven’t had the time.’

‘Ah. How unfortunate.’ A pause. Their eyes were locked together, each probing for access to the other’s mind. ‘Two new tableaus have surfaced, subtler than before. It seems he is wary of law enforcement making an official connection. The one in Russia…’ a beat passed as he waited for a protest, received none, ‘… was an older man, Vladislav Bogdanov. Corpulent, of good standing. A former Party member who escaped retribution and poverty when the Union crumbled. He was found supine in a Muscovite slum, with his tongue cut out. I understand he was not mourned excessively.’ Hannibal betrayed no emotion, relating the facts of the case casually, in a low voice.

‘You recognised the pose?’ Will asked. The air between them was warm now, crackling with electricity. Will felt as though his skin would soon melt off to release the monster and let it duel with Hannibal’s.

‘Nicolas Régnier’s Saint Sebastian Tended by the Holy Irene. The painting is not as famous as the others.’

‘But you still spotted it.’

‘I have a good eye.’

Will’s knuckles were white on the dark counter. ‘How did Bogdanov die?’

Hannibal slid his hand closer to Will’s, barely grazing it with his fingertips. ‘A few shots of pentobarbital. Like a dog.’

Will gasped as he suddenly fell into Hannibal’s eyes like a man overboard, desperately struggling to stay afloat before being consumed by the tide. He didn’t know what Bogdanov looked like, but his mind supplied a scenario – he was holding a syringe in latex-clad hands, pulling the plunger to extract a lethal dose of a chemical substance. Though he didn’t have to, he squirted a few drops of it into the air as he walked towards his target, delighting in the incoherent screams coming from somewhere outside his field of vision. No tongue. The man’s arm was thick and strong, evidently belonging to someone who, in his youth, would have posed a serious physical challenge. But not anymore. As the needle pierced his skin over and over, like so many arrows, the anguished cries echoing off the walls turned to sustained, miserable sobs. He wasn’t worried about anyone coming in. He’d made sure to find a secluded spot, perhaps even somewhere soundproof, because he knew he’d have to cut out Bogdanov’s tongue while he was alive. Why? Pure sadism? Or was it because…

Because he couldn’t let the meat be tainted by the pentobarbital.

Will staggered back, thinking of the food he’d accepted from Hannibal, the dumplings and the soup and the chocolate, and Hannibal quickly grabbed his upper arms to stop him from falling. Will looked up, pale and tasting acid.

‘As for the second tableau, in Mexico,’ Hannibal’s hands were hot on Will’s body, close to burning, but he didn’t move away, ‘well. Were you too busy to notice that one?’

‘Why me?’ Will said without thinking. Hannibal’s smile reached his eyes now, bright light glinting in the pupils.

‘We’re alike,’ he repeated.

Will gripped Hannibal’s suit jacket, breathing hard.

‘You don’t know anything about me,’ he growled. ‘I could call the cops –‘

‘You could speak to the police,’ Hannibal cut in, ‘if you wish, but I believe you may find yourself in some trouble once they cross-reference your past work schedules with the locations of the murders.’

Will’s features hardened. ‘You flew from the same airports, all four times.’

‘I don’t mean just those.’ Hannibal’s hands slipped up Will’s shoulder’s to caress the sides of his neck, his thumbs ghosting over Will’s throat. ‘You must have noticed that the bodies were dealt with by someone experienced. It would be worth your time to scan the news archives of places you travelled to before we… _officially_ met.’

Although Will’s heart was beating dangerously fast, the blood in his veins felt thick and could only slowly ooze through his veins, making him severely light-headed.

‘Who _are_ you?’ he whispered.

Hannibal stroked Will’s face with his thumbs, and closed his hands firmly around his neck.

Will squinted as the curtain opened.

‘Hey, we’re gonna be – oh.’ Brian did a double take at the two men standing inches from each other, almost entwined, and smirked knowingly. ‘We’ll be in Dallas in fifteen, twenty minutes. You’ll have to go back to your seat, sir.’ He was immensely amused, clearly surprised Will had it in him to seemingly seduce a passenger mid-flight, and gave his colleague a quick wink before closing the curtain again.

Hannibal hadn’t taken his eyes off Will, slowly running his thumb along his lower lip. Will twitched it away from Hannibal’s reach, re-established visual contact.

‘I’m going to make the announcement,’ he said. ‘Passengers have to return to their seats and buckle their belts.’

For a second, maybe two, Will saw death in the other man’s eyes, a murderous torrent that washed over him like a freezing ocean wave, and he was sure Hannibal was going to seize his head and snap his neck mere feet from the passengers and the rest of the flight crew.

Instead, Hannibal relaxed his grip and let his hands trail down Will’s arms, over skin riddled with goosebumps. He took a few steps back, and turned to leave.

‘Please don’t run,’ he said, taking the edge of the curtain in his hand. ‘This will be over soon.’

And with that, Will was alone with the cart and the intercom and the constant hum of the engines. He clenched his fists, ashamed at the arousal aching between his legs.

_‘It would be worth your time to scan the news archives of places you travelled to before we… officially met.’_

The plastic receiver was slippery in his clammy hand, and he had to hold on tight and focus in order to address the passengers without stuttering. He’d be on the plane to Baltimore soon, and then home in Wolf Trap for his week off.

Plenty of time to investigate.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the big wait, postgrads are hard. Hopefully the next chapters won't take as long!
> 
> Edit: I cleaned up the grammar of this chapter on 22/12/2016.

Winston cocked his head quizzically, tongue lolling out of his mouth. His master had barely moved off the couch in days. Stacks of printed news articles littered every surface of the living room, covered in blue scribbles and post-it notes. He perfunctorily nudged the hand Will had let droop down to the floor, and nuzzled it.

Will shifted, startled, but soon patted the dog’s head, burying his bitten nails into the base of Winston’s ears _just_ the way he liked. Heartened, Winston trotted around the room, yapping all the way and wagging his tail so hard he almost fell over. Buster wandered over from the kitchen, intrigued by the noise, and hopped onto Will’s chest to prod at his face with a cold little nose. A minute later, the rest of the pack had surrounded him, each vying for attention in their own ways, and Will couldn’t help smiling as he struggled to pet all of them.

‘You guys are getting antsy, huh?’ he said, shifting his attention from Arbuckle to Bette. Although he frequently let out into the thickly forested area around his home, he’d been holed up inside all week and hadn’t really spent time with them. ‘I don’t blame you. Wanna go for a walk?’

The word made the younger dogs stand to attention, then dash to the front door. When Will stood up, a white curtain slammed down in front of his eyes and he quickly groped around to steady himself, grabbing hold of the nearest wall just in time. He remembered that he hadn’t eaten in days, and uneasily traced his face with his fingers. Stubble, longer and rougher than it had been in months, palpable crevices under his eyes – maybe even a slight depression about the cheeks. Ever since the realisation about Hannibal’s food, it had been hard to keep meals down. He certainly hadn’t copped to cannibalism, but it was obvious. The recurring pattern of missing organs, limbs, chunks of dead human flesh in the crime scenes complemented Hannibal’s culinary passion too perfectly for it not to be the case.

He felt wetness on his feet and looked down to see Winston licking his toes, trying hard to fix his human’s problems. Will bent down, picked him up, gave him a quick hug and then carried him outside to get all the rowdy pups ready.

The brisk morning air almost hurt as it filled his lungs, seemed to send hunger pangs directly to his stomach. Regardless of how abhorrent the idea of food was right now, he had to eat. Already, his mind felt dull and his limbs heavy – if he became unable to retreat to the few remaining safe recesses of his brain, he’d go crazy.

He snorted. Big difference that’d be.

After helping the smaller dogs into the back of his car, Will started the engine drove towards one of his favourite fishing spots. It was out of season and the place was pretty secluded, so he was fairly certain they wouldn’t be bothering anyone. Being away from everything but the sound of gently running water and dogs playing would do him a world of good. As he watched his house disappear in the rear-view mirror, he relaxed. Though he travelled all over the world, Will sometimes felt his home was the most faraway place he knew, and he loved it for that.

Ten minutes into the ride, he spotted the greasy spoon diner attached to the gas station he always passed on the way to his fishing hole, and his stomach gurgled. The service was fast, the food cheap. He pulled up to the building, lowered the car’s windows a crack, and tuned into NPR before stepping out and locking the doors. The dogs watched him go, muzzles pressed against the window.

A few customers dotted the diner; elderly men chatting about politics and fuel prices. Will sat at the counter, ordered a coffee and a vegetarian omelette. Burgers, bacon, fried chicken – all the meat options made him queasy.

He thought of Hannibal.

The investigation had been slow, at first. His training told him to establish a pattern, an MO. Hannibal was mercurial and strange, perhaps beyond traditional profiling methods, but Will had to start _somewhere_. He wrote down quick summaries of the killings in an old notebook, compiling a list of every noticeable characteristic. The Mexico murder could be disregarded as a clear provocation –Will’s passing resemblance to the unfortunate victim had stuck with him ever since he’d seen the man’s mangled body on the cheap hotel television.

He blinked. No time to dwell on it.

Regardless of the ultimate purpose of the missing body parts, it was clear Hannibal made a point of taking trophies, performing the removals with Asclepian zeal to enhance his projected tableaus. The artistry of the crime was another important factor, though Will didn’t doubt that Hannibal was capable of quick, messy kills. If the target fought back unexpectedly hard, or if circumstances deviated from a meticulous plan, it was better to set aside aesthetic concerns than to improvise a shoddy installation with a battered, unsightly corpse. They would have to be dispensed with promptly. Would Hannibal use his hands, press down into panicked eyes until the tears ran red and gelatinous, until his fingers scratched grey matter? Would he use his teeth, twin rows of marble headstones, to collapse the windpipe?

Will dug his nails into his palm. He knew he was blushing. Fuck. Focus.

Missing organs and body parts, an artistic touch – and special dates. Hannibal had said as much. Will was meant to look at _certain days_. Next to his shortlist of motifs, he jotted down the dates of the murders he knew: November 8 th, December 13th, January 21st, February 1st. The frequency made him blanch. How many months had Hannibal kept it up? And the days – he couldn’t say why, but they didn’t seem random.

This was going to be a long week.

He took his checklist to the desktop computer he only rarely used for email and accounting, and started his search in earnest. It was slow going, at first. Referencing his old work schedules gave him a timeline of places to investigate, but big, mainstream news sites only went so far. Most didn’t give details on isolated murders for Will to successfully apply his criteria, and when it came to certain countries, a few scattered killings might not even make the international news at all.

Judicious use of Google Translate made navigating foreign news outlets doable, but sluggish, particularly when bad coding turned archives into a mess of stray HTML. Sitting in front of a screen for hours on end made Will long for nights spent pounding the pavement with the hard edges of a pistol under his arm. He right-clicked another item and his computer fan made a high-pitched whirring noise. The old machine could barely handle multiple tabs, let alone the litany Will was opening every hour.

The encyclopaedic volume of articles he ended up printing seemed overkill even as he carried it to the living room, but it was better to be safe than sorry. He didn’t know how long Hannibal had been… following him. He sat down on his sagging couch, sipped his coffee, and held the first page closer to his face.

Over the next few days, the bulk of printed news items increased exponentially. Papers littered his home, many sporting round coffee stains, most covered in writing that referred to other reports, often stashed in a completely different part of the house. Almost all of them turned out to be duds, of course. Will had cast his net wide, expecting more debris than worthwhile catches, and he’d spent a long time sifting through ultimately pointless leads.

But.

Several hours into scanning tortured machine-translated text, a little light started flashing in his brain. The more cases he read, the brighter that light became, until he _got_ it.

Hannibal’s crimes always fell on the same days.

He rushed to the side table where he’d started filing confirmed and likely Lecter murders. The pile was small, but there were enough tableaus to spot a pattern. October 5th. September 3rd. June 1st. March 8th, February 5th, December 2nd. He let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d held in. This was insane. It had to be.

He grabbed the pages and raced back to his seat, almost tripping over several canines. Sorting through for killings committed in the right countries, at the right times, he tentatively began testing his theory. He felt like a conspiracy nut just thinking about it, but he _had_ to check.

August 2nd, Bangkok. A young man crucified in the alley behind a temple, his tattoos meticulously excised so his skin was left with dozens of gaps, with deep cuts of the meat underneath missing. It was a match. Just reading the description, Will could faintly feel tense flesh under his fingertips, the body trying to writhe away as his scalpel followed the outlines of flowers and fish –

No. No time for that.

He flipped through articles to the next date.

July 1st, Montreal. A short article, void of detail. A middle-aged homeless man found dead at the _Place des Arts_ performance space, sheltered from the rain under the lip of a roof. The police couldn’t find his name or his family, and urged the public to come forward with information. The local community could not recall seeing him in the area. His identifying characteristics were stubble, bad teeth, and recent, healing scars that ran down his thighs. Will saw a gloomy room, underground; an older male hiding in the corner, bleeding from the mouth. He hadn’t bathed in weeks. How long had he been there? The wounds were already healing, where the meat had been taken. He wasn’t homeless. It was just easier to dispose of someone who looked like he was. Will looked down. He was holding three scarlet teeth, freshly pulled. Another match.

Then another.

And another.

Hours later, Will slapped the article he was reading down on the table, whipped off his glasses, and dug the heels of his palms into his eyes, pressing hard. He groaned. It was all becoming too overwhelming, too frightening. He’d gone back _five years_ already. How long had it been going on? How had he not noticed? Always the same pattern, that sequence that felt somehow familiar. He didn’t want to admit it. It sounded like the kind of shit Dan Brown might cook up. It was bizarre.

1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21. Fibonacci numbers, the mathematical expression of the divine spiral found everywhere in nature – and it _made sense_. It was connected to the artistry Hannibal always infused his tableaus with. It suited his narcissism, modelling his killing schedule after a sequence long held to be holy, to be the closest human representation of God. A sequence rare and spread apart wide enough to elude overworked law enforcement agencies, but so consistent and logical that it sent an unmistakeable message to those who looked close enough. Every Fibonacci number is the sum of the preceding ones. Hannibal thought they were complementary. Alike. Why? Why Will? Why _this_ sequence? It couldn’t be random. It had to be based on something, something Will had –

He lifted his head up from his hands and felt around himself for his phone. Focusing on the screen in tunnel-vision, he laboriously tapped ‘will graham nopd’ into Google, stomach sinking with each letter. He’d done his best to avoid anything related to that day since leaving Louisiana, but now, he had to know. Thousands of results flashed onto the page – editorials, video interviews, wiki articles, sick forums for people to swap stories and pictures of the most gruesome, sensational crimes. The deluge of links was almost enough to make him tab out, forget the whole matter, but he’d come this far. Any of them would do. Swallowing dry, he pressed a title with his thumb and was transported to a fairly respectable news site, his eyes scanning the text for the exact date he’d killed Garret Jacob Hobbs.

January 16th 2008\. 16th January 2008. 16, 1, 8; 1.618. The numerical representation of the golden ratio, the Fibonacci numbers, the value of the Greek letter Φ. God splitting zero, nothing becoming something.

New Orleans _began_ the sequence.

Will set his phone aside, numb. Blank. He glanced at the pages covering every surface of his living room, a snowstorm of gore and tawdry tales. Was Hannibal just… continuing what Will started? Did he hear the frequency at which Will’s demon howled, decide to stamp the earth around him with cloven hooves, hoping for more kills? Hoping for… a partner?

‘One veggie omelette,’ the teenage waitress placed the plate in front of him. Will glanced at her. The coffee was still hot in his hand. Only a few minutes had passed. Good.

‘Thanks,’ he said, forcing a smile. The girl grinned back bashfully, then left to attend to another customer. Laughter rang out behind him, loud and raucous; the elderly patrons had clearly found some common ground. Will sunk the side of his fork into the omelette, releasing a pale yellow flow of uncooked egg. He poked and prodded at his meal, slowly shredding it, barely managing one runny mouthful. As he washed it down with the last of his coffee, a greasy paper bag plopped down onto the counter, reeking of cooked flesh. The waitress grinned broadly.

‘Bacon scraps,’ she said. ‘Saw the dogs in your car.’

The thin brown bag was almost transparent from the grease. All the tiny pieces of omelette Will had managed to consume formed a thick ball that bounced off the walls of his stomach and made him feel very ill indeed.

‘Thanks,’ he mumbled, dropping a fistful of dollars next to his full plate, ‘keep the change.’

He powerwalked out of the diner, rounded the corner, and doubled over in time to avoid throwing up down the front of his shirt, steadying himself with a hand against the raw brick wall as he heaved and retched behind the dumpsters. When his stomach was empty, Will noticed that in his rush to get out of the restaurant, he’d had the presence of mind to grab the paper bag. He spat, cleared his throat, and made his way back to his car.

Later, in the tranquillity of his favourite fishing spot, Will watched his dogs run out of the water to greedily tear apart the strips of meat in a flash of white fangs and wet fur.

\---

Will went back to work only a few days after his investigation. At first, he was relieved. Flying all around the globe was a welcome constant strain on his mind. No time to think about blood drying on his fingers, human flesh slipping down his throat, the sound of a foreign, oaken voice whispering in his ear. Wake up, work, work, work, until his consciousness started slipping away and he could lay his head down. No nightmares. In Asia, he’d bought sleeping pills the FDA had banned over a decade ago. Something that, taken with whiskey, knocked him out cold until the next morning.

But every new day was a threat.

Before every flight, Will’s heart would thump itself into a knot as he anxiously watched the passengers file in, searching the crowd for that familiar pair of piercing eyes. Though realising Hannibal wasn’t in the cabin should put him at ease, it generally just put him on edge. At least if he was there, Will could… talk to him? Keep an eye on him? Not knowing was like swimming in open water, waiting for serrated teeth to clamp around his torso. And being on constant high alert took its toll. When his head didn’t hurt, his muscles radiated pain. Today, his whole body throbbed dully, gradually hammering in a serious migraine. It didn’t help that the couple in row seventeen had been arguing for the better part of an hour.

Alana, who’d been telling them to pipe down for the third time, stalked back into the stewards’ area where Will was stocking the food cart with snacks.

‘That guy is such an asshole,’ she hissed furiously, standing over Will with her back to the main cabin. She couldn’t keep the scowl off her face and didn’t want the passengers to see. Will looked at her sympathetically. ‘I told them we’re getting complaints and he just _smiled_ at me. He called me _sweetheart_. Can you believe it?’

‘What’d the wife say?’

Alana opened her mouth to reply, and as if on cue, the woman in row seventeen screamed, ‘Get the fuck off me!’

Will cast a worried glance in his friend’s direction before hurrying over to the couple. He saw Brian do the same from his side of the cabin, both of them arriving just in time to see the man threateningly raise his hand, his wedding ring gleaming in the overhead light. Will remembered the sound of flesh slapping against flesh, the defeated ‘oof’ of his mother as she sagged down to the floor, an ugly red blotch forming on her face. Instinctively, he reached out and tightly gripped the man’s wrist.

The guy did a double take, glowering. ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ he snarled. His skin was a pale yellow where Will clung to it like a vice.

‘What am _I_ doing?’ Will barked. His voice sounded so loud inside his head. He realised he hadn’t raised his tone in weeks, maybe months. His stomach felt odd, as though the acid inside was fizzing. ‘You’ve been disrupting this flight for _an hour_ now. What are _you_ doing?’

‘Let go of my hand, you son of a bitch,’ the passenger said through gritted teeth, ‘or I’ll have you done for assault.’

‘Are you gonna calm down?’ Brian rested his forearm against the overhead luggage compartment, staring down at the couple. The woman was looking out of the window, impervious to the world around her.

‘Am I gonna _calm down_? That’s how you talk to customers? Suck a dick, pal.’

Brian looked at his colleague and shrugged. Will relaxed his grip and the man snatched his hand away, angrily rubbing his wrist.

‘If you can’t sit quietly, we’ll have to move you to the back,’ said Brian.

‘Fuck yourself. I paid for this seat and I’m staying in it.’

‘Okay.’ Brian looked over at the man’s companion. ‘Ma’am? Would you follow me, please?’

The woman didn’t budge. He sneered. ‘I _said,_ we’re not moving, asshole.’

‘My colleague was talking to your wife, _sir_ ,’ Will interjected. The other man’s eyes were droopy and stupid, muddled by drink and rage. It had been a long while since Will had felt true, cold disgust for another human being. ‘Will you keep your voice down?’

The man stared at Will hard for almost a full, pregnant minute, before he unbuckled his seatbelt and stood as high as he could go, crooked because of the overheard luggage compartments.

‘Listen, cocksucker,’ he started, prodding Will’s chest hard with a stout, pink finger. The physical contact was brief but harsh, a quick shot to the heart, and it made something buckle. A dent in the cage, enough to rattle the beast. Will clamped his hands onto the man’s shoulders and dug his thumbs hard into the hollows of his clavicles, pinching nerves and veins as fiercely as he could. A high-pitched yelp escaped the man’s throat and he sunk back down into his seat, instantly reaching for his burning muscles, only to have his hands grabbed in mid-air. Any remarks were silenced when the man’s gaze met Will’s.

His features were calm, even serene. His face was sharper now, hollowed by malnourishment and overwork, his lips quirked in a tiny, barely-there smile. His eyes did not retain their usual watery anguish. They had turned to hard ice, piercing the passenger’s pupils with pure hatred. For a moment, it was as though a basilisk stood over him, whipping its scaly tail left and right as it decided who to eat first.

The man made a scared little noise at the back of his throat, and Will’s features softened, just barely. Slowly, he removed his hands from the drunk’s. His voice broke the silence.

‘We’ll arrive in Baltimore in ten hours. Don’t speak until we’ve landed.’

Brian nodded, trying hard not to look unsettled. ‘Yeah. If you cause any more trouble, we’ll have to cuff you. Alright?’

The man nodded dumbly, eyes flitting from one crew member to the other. Will turned and made his way back to where Alana had been watching the scene, closely followed by Brian.

‘Are you alright?’ she asked, stepping aside to allow Will access to the fold-out chair near the cockpit’s door. He shrugged.

‘Sure. Yeah. I’ve had worse.’

‘He took care of the whole thing in like, a minute. Just Vulcan nerve-pinched that guy,’ Brian said, demonstrating by flicking his hand in the air. ‘That’s cops for ya, huh?’

‘I’m not a cop,’ said Will, weariness creeping into his voice. The adrenaline of the encounter was wearing off fast, the monster sealed back up. His limbs felt heavy. Why had something so small come so close to making him lose his temper? He’d dealt with drunk, rowdy passengers before. Everything was different. Raw. ‘I’m just really tired.’

The rest of the flight was mercifully quiet. Will’s co-workers did most of the heavy lifting, which meant he was allowed to spend the bulk of the journey making coffee, talking to Jack, and daydreaming about his home, tucked away from the mayhem of modern life. The stop in Baltimore would only last a scant few hours, just enough to rest up for a flight South of the border, but it would be long enough for him to drive home. Maybe even see the pups.

He smiled as he stepped out of the airport, tugging his little suitcase along. He’d have to get something to eat on the way there. Not much takeout down his neck of the woods. Pizza, maybe.

Mentally running through the list of good places nearby, Will felt a thud on the back of his head, stumbled, and hit the pavement before he registered any pain – but when it hit, it hit hard. Every distress signal fired simultaneously from the back of his skull, fire ants fanning out throughout his scalp. His ears seemed to only work when his heart beat.

‘… you fuck… eepy fuc… aggot, who… aughing n…’ the voice faded in and out, like a fleeting radio signal, but it wasn’t difficult to pin its origin on the aggressive passenger from before. A heavy boot made contact with Will’s stomach and he reflexively curled up on himself with a groan. Somewhere in the background, he could hear the wife egging her husband on. Fuck. Fucking god fucking _damn it_. He wanted the monster to come out now, wanted the cage to be broken open so he could spring to his feet, coast on an adrenaline high, and fight _back_. But everything was quiet. He was hungry. He was tired. He’d been kicked, what, five times by now? And still, he couldn’t summon the energy to do anything at all.

With the bitter taste of bile in his mouth, he thought of Hannibal.

\---

The silence was a ten-ton weight, pressing him down into the bed. No dogs in the house made for a lonely awakening. Will groaned as he sat up, hundreds of muscles working in tandem to move him, bulging against bruised ribs, stretching near-torn ligaments. He gingerly touched the back of his head. The bandage was due for a change two days ago and the wound was weeping ugly yellow tears now, staining the pillowcase. He sighed. His body was just too broken to take care of his dogs, but leaving them at the neighbour’s when he was at home still felt like a betrayal.

He dragged himself to the bathroom to empty his bladder, and looked at the bathtub. Apart from his head, he didn’t have any open wounds left, and though it had only been about a week, it felt like he hadn’t had more than a crappy sponge bath in months. He flushed the toilet, filled the bath up, pulled down his boxers, and carefully sank into the heat, wincing when it reached especially sensitive parts of his body and healing stitches. Finally, he was lying down fully, making sure his bandage didn’t get wet. Through the tendrils of steam wafting off the surface of the clear water, he could see the contusions that dotted his pale skin. Absently, he touched his cheek, feeling the crusted wound where he’d hit the pavement face-first.

Alana and Brian took him to the hospital that night. They waited with him, fought with him when he firmly refused to press charges – he said he didn’t know who it was for sure, that he could barely remember what had happened at all. They wouldn’t understand that he didn’t want to be involved with cops, feared they’d invade his home and his life and stifle whatever was blooming inside of him.

That, through him, they’d find Hannibal. Maybe.

It was Alana who relented first, who took Brian aside, who came back and said someone from admin would be in to talk to him.

It was probably her who suggested the month off.

When the Human Resources drone in the perfectly pressed suit arrived to announce that Will was on vacation effective immediately, he’d protested. He didn’t need that much time to recover. He’d been working so hard, so well, how could they penalise him _now_ , when he needed distractions most? The representative smiled falsely. Will had been doing _great_ , no doubt about it. The company really valued his wellbeing, the wellbeing of all its employees. A little holiday was a fair sacrifice if it meant he’d come back better than before.

Better?

There had been some… concerns about inappropriate behaviour. Depression. Aggression. Besides, Will’s face was badly hurt, and his job relied on appearance. He needed the time off. Or he needn’t come back at all.

Will lifted his knees out of the water, giving him more space to sink down until his nose was only just over the surface. Bev, Alana, even Brian and Jimmy had offered to swing by and bring him groceries, drive him around, just hang out. But he didn’t want to see anyone.

Almost anyone.

He shifted. _Did_ he want to see Hannibal? He was scared. Betrayed. Angry, _so_ angry. But not seeing him felt strange, filled him with a peculiar longing. Images of Hannibal filled his mind, sending a flush of arousal creeping down his body, his face red from the heat and the thoughts – and that’s when he realised that today was the day. One of the days. Wasn’t it? He sat up and blindly pawed at the counter for his phone, found it next to his spare pair of glasses.

March 2nd. It fit the sequence.

The glorified house arrest had forced him to stay in Virginia, so Hannibal had his pick of the entire United States as a hunting ground. A quick round of the usual suspects – CNN, NBC, even Fox – provided no clues. He switched to local news.  A couple of gang-related shootings, a handful of suicides, an accident or two, but nothing that stood out. Had Hannibal missed a day? No, that didn’t make any sense. He’d committed to this for _years_ – the thought was horrific and incredible – there was no reason to drop it now he _knew_ he had Will’s attention.

Unless that was the plan all along. Just to fuck with his head.

But if that was the case, why spend so much time for so little payoff?

Christ, Graham. Hannibal wasn’t a _reasonable_ man, clearly; why did he do any of it?

Will thumbed around the site at random, frustrated by the lack of information, when he blindly clicked on a certain item. Maybe, as so often seemed to be the case, fate had some hand in it. At any rate, a new page loaded, and Will was confronted by the face of the man who’d attacked him just a few days ago.

The phone slipped slightly from hand, had to be rescued at the last minute before it went under. There he was. That stodgy head, eyes creased by a big smile, hand around his wife’s waist. A picture of happier times. Scrolling down the article, words jumped out at him: ‘missing,’ ‘kidnapped.’ An emotional plea by his wife for his safe return. And a photograph of a small piece of paper left in his house, with a few sentences typewritten on the yellowing page. So different from that graceful handwriting, and yet.

_‘I am fearful of what I am for you, but I draw strength from what I am with you. For you I am a bishop, and with you I am a Christian.’_

_Saint Augustine._

_Soon._


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My schoolwork is murdering me but this chapter is a bit longer than usual, so, uh, maybe that makes up for the wait? Hopefully with the holidays I'll have more spare time, so I can finish up the fic soon.
> 
> Edit: I cleaned up the grammar of this chapter on 22/12/2016.

Will groaned as he stood, muscles knocking against bruised innards and thin new skin. He was healing up slower than the doctor said he would – but then again, he wasn’t taking great care of himself. Sleepless nights, heavy drinking, and sporadic showering didn’t encourage prompt recovery. Jim Gallagher, his neighbour, grimaced in sympathy.

‘You sure you wanna leave now?’ he asked, motioning towards his percolator, ‘I got more if you want it.’

Will smiled. Working as a steward had etched a Stepford grin into his muscle memory, and real, small smiles felt odd when they came.

‘Appreciate it, Mr Gallagher. But I should probably get going.’ He nodded at the window. The sun was low on the horizon, quickly sinking beneath the treetops.

‘Well, it is gettin’ pretty late.’ The old man got to his feet and cleared the table of empty cups and plates covered with crumbs. ‘You get home and rest up, y’hear? You look like you ain’t slept right in a long while.’

‘I sleep okay,’ Will lied, pulling on his jacket. The meds he’d gotten used to at work were too strong, letting him snooze through anything. They were dangerous. If he _needed_ to knock himself out, an afternoon nursing a bottle of spirits usually did the trick. Straight to oblivion without stopping by night terrors. ‘It’s just hard without the dogs sometimes, you know? You get used to them being around.’ He zipped the jacket up midway, and put on his baseball cap, careful not to snag the bandage on the back of his head. ‘Sorry they’ve had to stay with you so long, Jim.’

‘Way I see it, you’re doin’ me a favour. If I had to rely on Bugs ‘n Elmer to catch rats, bring in game, and keep watch,’ he looked at the two old hounds lying by the empty fireplace, skin so loose with age their wrinkles threatened to obscure their eyes altogether, ‘I’d be infested, starvin’, and burgled.’

‘I’m glad they’re making themselves useful, though I still want to thank you properly, somehow.’

‘You just keep droppin’ by when you can and that’s good enough,’ Gallagher said, following his young friend out the door and onto the porch. One didn’t need Will’s gift to see the loneliness in the man’s eyes. He often spoke of his late wife, and from pictures strewn around the house, Will knew he bore a resemblance to Gallagher’s estranged child. A visit every other week wasn’t much to ask for at all.

‘Yes, sir,’ said Will, carefully bending down to greet the dogs running to him from all over the yard. ‘I should be okay to take ‘em back next week. I’ll bring you a bottle of the good stuff.’

Gallagher nodded. His thick white moustache twitched with what could have been a grin as he watched Will struggle to give all his pets equal attention.

When Will bid him goodnight, he cleared his throat.

‘Good movie on the TV next Wednesday. _Paths of Glory_. You seen it?’

‘A long time ago. Kubrick, right?’

The man shrugged. ‘Good movie,’ he repeated. ‘My screen’s pretty big and I got beer, if you ain’t busy.’

‘Sounds like a good time,’ Will said. Standing there in the brisk evening, before his house, alone but for a couple of aging animals, Jim exuded a familiar sort of melancholy. Will wondered what he’d think if he met Hannibal, if he knew the thoughts that clouded Will’s nights. ‘I’m not usually busy, Mr Gallagher. Kind of a loner.’

‘Well, I seen them cars head to your house. Figured they were visitin’ you.’

‘A couple weeks back? Just friends dropping off some food, making sure I was alright.’

Beverly and Jimmy had stopped by, and it was a fact that, since then, the house and his wounds had looked better than they had done in a long while. Still, Will wanted to be alone. Just in case.

Gallagher shook his head.

‘Not a couple weeks back. In the past few days.’

‘The past few…?’

Gallagher frowned a little, put his hands in his pockets. ‘All different manufacturers. Rental, maybe.’

Will blinked, and slowly nodded. ‘Nobody I’d know,’ he said, casually. ‘Might be something happening around here. Hunters.’

Both of them were silent for a moment. A few dogs tussled on the ground nearby, grunting and panting loudly. Gallagher’s gaze searched Will’s face, something he never usually did; his disinterest in eye contact matched Will’s own and it was one of the reasons why being around him gave Will a chance to talk to another human being without all the stress social calls usually implied. He purposely looked away, and the old man got the message.

‘Hunters. Sure,’ he said, before awkwardly patting Will on the arm, making him suppress a flinch. ‘Well. Maybe I’ll see you Wednesday, huh?’

‘Maybe. Yeah. Have a good night, Mr Gallagher.’

‘You take care, son.’

In the rear-view mirror, Will watched Gallagher wave a curt goodbye and retreat into his place, slouching with age.

Different rental cars, headed towards his house. No one had stopped by recently. No one had come close enough for him to see. For him to hear. Heat pooled at the bottom of his stomach as he drove, a colony of fire ants scratching their way up his insides.

The dogs would be at his neighbour’s for a few more days. His home was quiet, designed to be maximally isolated. Will’s headspace was a mess of insomnia, liquor, anger, fear, anticipation.

This was the perfect moment for Hannibal to strike. Will knew.

He wanted it.

Life had stopped being logical when he connected the dots and glimpsed his place in Hannibal’s plan. Reality felt like coasting down a never-ending stream on a rickety raft, at the whim of outside forces and always moments away from drowning.

It was scary.

Fear would sneak up on him when he least expected it – sitting outside his home, waiting for a bowl of oatmeal to cook, flipping through a book; out of the darkness, it would run over his heart like a spider, needly limbs stabbing terror into his core until his tension was shot and he was cowering in a corner, eyes darting around the room to find a hint of a familiar grin, an elegant hand, just wishing it would _end_.

It was scary.

But it was exciting, too.

Intimate contact with danger made everything acute. It made colours brighter, scents stronger, pain keener. It was familiar – what he’d felt in New Orleans and so desperately tried to escape, this longing. This instinct. This beast inside.

He couldn’t go back. A life – no, an _existence_ – of running from himself, of pointless travel and shallow connections and unease and facility; he couldn’t go back. He couldn’t.

The forced time off had given him the opportunity to craft ideal circumstances for Hannibal to visit. It wasn’t particularly difficult. Keeping people away, neglecting his health, leaving the dogs at Jim’s longer than he needed to; he could wait and let the enormity of the murder scheme swirl inside his mind, marvel at it and panic at it and rage at it without distractions.

What did Hannibal want?

What did _Will_ want?

He pulled into his driveway, stopped, and observed his house. Once a haven from the bustle of daily life, it towered over him like a silent prison now, where danger lurked in every corner. Was Hannibal watching him now? Had he hired a vehicle, parked it some ways into the woods, and broken in? Could he be inside, waiting with a weapon? These thoughts intruded whenever Will returned to his home. And yet, though he could easily drive away, stay in a hotel, contact the police – he got out, locked the car, and opened the front door.

Everything was so different from just a year ago. Even a few months ago. Nowadays, every foray into a space which should be his own could mean death. He finished checking all the rooms and found himself standing in his kitchen, letting out a long sigh of disappointment.

He wanted a confrontation.

He hadn’t felt this alive since the incident in New Orleans. He had to know why he’d been chosen. Why his urges were so strong. Why he was frustrated with every day that passed unhindered and tranquil, scared that the creature in his veins would tire and disappear.

He needed a confrontation.

And if he should die in the process, that wouldn’t be so bad. Jim Gallagher had sensed something off about his demeanour. If he dropped in to check on Will, he’d find the body, if there was one. Either way, he’d take care of the dogs. Will wondered if there would be a story about him in the paper. ‘Former hero cop slain?’ Maybe ‘killer cop meets demise?’ He thought of his pictures in the news, years ago, young and bewildered, staring woundedly at the camera. Stammering through a press conference, unable to say that seeing all that blood had made him realise just how dangerous he could become.

Catching a glimpse of himself in the reflective surfaced of the fridge, Will shook his head. Half crippled and on the verge of psychosis. Dangerous to himself, maybe.

The day’s last streams of sunlight painted the kitchen shades of brown and orange, the colour of so much liquor. He could use a drink. Sedate the butterflies in his stomach. He hadn’t been grocery shopping in too long, but there should still be a few dregs of Caribbean rum in the pantry. Enough to lubricate the evening, let it pass smoothly.

The recurring itch in his scalp manifested itself, prompting a chorus of aches and complaints all over his body. How long had it been since he’d changed those bandages? Just a few days ago, he’d narrowly avoided the clutches of infection, scrubbing ugly red stitches clean until the nagging pain of decay was replaced with the sharp sting of disinfectant. If he let things get too bad, he’d have to go back to the hospital. Away from Wolf Trap.

He coughed. His throat was dry. The bandages could wait a little.

With a deep intake a breath, Will turned to fetch his drink, and stopped dead in his tracks.

The shadow’s belly shone amber on the floor, drawing the eye up to the bottle standing on the counter. A quick mental check – no, he’d been too sauced after the JD, no way would he have had the wherewithal to find the rum, much less carefully place it near his window. He hadn’t seen it before he left for Jim’s. Had he? Dust coated its shoulders like snow on an old friend’s back, with just the slightest indentations delineating a grip. Slowly exhaling through his nose, Will approached the bottle as though he could see a bomb through the glass, and poked a line through the grey film with his fingertips. Definitely there, slightly cool to the touch. Recently inside the recesses of his pantry. Dark shoes creaking through his home, brown eyes scanning his habitat. Jim Gallagher had seen cars head here, vehicles he’d never seen before. Rental, maybe. But Will had checked every room. He’d seen nothing. No one. And Hannibal wouldn’t leave such obvious traces, he was too smart. Too clinical.

Unless he wanted to put Will on edge. Watch him squirm.

His heart was in his throat. Thoughts of the murders, _all_ those murders, flooded his mind and made his head swim.

_Had_ he left the bottle here?

Why?

_When_?

He reached for the knife block and unsheathed the carving blade, squinting as its long, skinny surface brightly reflected the light of dusk. With only a second’s hesitation, he marched through his house again. Living room, closets, hallways. Bathroom. Study. He paused in front of the final, closed door.

His room.

Blood pumped through his ears, beating a drum that drowned out all other noise. He felt his throat contract, spit like crushed ice flowing down. Touch the handle. Grip. _Grip_. Slick with sweat. Turn.

Nothing.

Reflexively, Will felt most of the tension leave his body, dropping the knife a little lower. Intellectually, however, he knew he couldn’t let his guard down. He cautiously entered the room, each step echoing the memory of his police training – the firearm in his bedside cabinet would serve him better than the cooking utensil in his hand. He didn’t like having a gun so close, almost calling out to him, but after the news of the kidnapping, he felt he needed it. Anything that gave him a shred of safety was vital.

Passing by his bed, he briefly paused, ran his knuckle over the crumpled sheets. Illogically, embarrassingly, he found himself hoping that Hannibal wouldn’t think badly of him for the messiness of the house.

He slid open the cabinet drawer. A couple of blister packs of various pharmaceuticals, a box of spare bullets, a few books, and nothing else.

No gun.

‘Hello, Will.’

The voice came from the open door. That rich, soothing voice that he hadn’t heard in months now, that he’d almost forgotten. It could have been a hallucination – Will certainly wasn’t a stranger to those – but there was something unquantifiably real about it, the sound slotting snugly into a nook in his mind that hadn’t been filled in so long. His brain was rent with the contradicting instincts of crisis: if you don’t look at him, you’ll be safe! Clutch the knife harder, get ready for a brawl. Slow down, think, talk.

Will turned towards the voice.

He was real.

Framed by the doorway, he almost looked like a painting in a gallery, impeccably dressed and coiffed and poised. Divested of his usual suit jacket, his body’s lean musculature was made all the more visible by the sleek lines of his slim cut black trousers and pale mauve shirt, the sleeves rolled up. And his face, of course. Those fine, foreign features, that ruddy mouth, and those usually impenetrable eyes, now shining with morbid desire in the golden hue of sunset.  

Hannibal.

With his shabby clothes and crooked posture, Will felt very small.

They watched each other, a wounded rabbit and a voracious chimera. Outside the confines of an airplane or an airport, isolated from the sound of constant machinery and chatter, one would almost swear he could hear the other’s heartbeat from across the room.  

Hannibal smiled.

Will launched himself from his crouched position, closing the distance between them in a few fast paces with the knife’s handle held close to his stomach, the sharp tip thrust out. It wasn’t too difficult for Hannibal to dodge this opening attack, stepping aside just in time to let Will careen out into the hall – just the way he’d hoped. Will blocked his forward motion by planting one heel firmly on the ground, using the leverage to swing his body towards Hannibal, arm outstretched, and – he barely clipped the intruder, leaving a shallow, scarlet cut across his right forearm. But it had forced Hannibal to walk back, shrinking defensively, and that’s all Will wanted.

The seconds he gained were enough to give him a head start sprinting down the hall, towards the stairs. He could hear fast footsteps behind him, spurring him on further, taking the steps two or three at a time until he’d reached the bottom. He blinked at the variety of doors to choose from – since when was his house so big?

He ducked into his study and threw his chair into the doorway, hoping to slow Hannibal down even a little. His breaths came out short and desperate, the adrenaline silencing the growing aches in his muscles and bones. His home now stretched to grotesque proportions: he was Theseus, or maybe the Minotaur, tearing through the labyrinthine innards of his oppressive former sanctuary.

He had to get to the front door, then the car.

Will entered the kitchen, eyes darting over the counters as they came into view, searching for the spot where he’d dropped his keys. He yelped when his foot knocked into something that tipped his world sideways, crashing him down hard onto his elbow. Stifling a groan, he glanced back to look at the obstacle.

It was a bag. A large sports bag, brand name, black. Nothing Will would ever consider spending money on. Heavy, solid and bulky, like sacks of wet cement. He scrambled back to his feet, absently wondering what Hannibal could possibly have brought with him.

The question had barely germinated when the bag twitched. Despite the urge to keep running, Will stopped moving, stopped breathing. After a silent second, the bag twitched again, more obviously, then started writhing on the floor of his kitchen. Through the sound of the bag’s material rubbing against itself, Will knew that he could hear a muffled human voice screaming against a gag.

Long black legs rounded the corner of the doorway and came to a halt behind the wriggling bag. Hannibal wasn’t anywhere near out of breath, but he’d lost some of his composure. With the blood running down his arm and his dishevelled shirt and hair, he looked almost human.

‘I told you not to run,’ he said, calmly. ‘On the flight to Dallas. Do you remember?’

Will said nothing, gripped the handle of the knife tightly, clenched his empty fist until his fingernails could have buckled from the pressure. ‘What’s in the bag?’

Hannibal glanced down with something like surprise, as though he’d forgotten the object at his feet. He looked back up at his friend, smiling softly. ‘A gift.’

‘Why?’ Will blurted out. ‘Why did you… why _are_ you doing this? Why pick me?’

Carefully, Hannibal stepped over the bag, ending his graceful movement with a swift backwards kick. Will flinched when Hannibal’s heel collided with what had to be the prisoner’s face, judging by the distinct sound of a nose breaking, followed by a faint yelp. In any other circumstances, Will knew he’d be in the throes of a vision, hands and feet weak from hours of electrical tape restricting his circulation, struggling to breathe as blood gushed from his freshly broken nose, down over the tape covering his mouth. Dizzy with terror and pain, the coldness of the floor seeping through into his bones. In many ways, just like he’d felt that night outside the airport.

‘That guy’s in there, isn’t he?’ Will’s tone was steady. ‘The man who attacked me.’

‘Yes.’ A short pause. ‘You asked why I’m doing this, and it’s simple. I’m a fan of your work.’

Will let out a surprised chuckle; part nerves, part bewilderment. ‘My work? Don’t… don’t _bullshit_ me. What “work?”’

Hannibal took a step closer, as though approaching a cornered feral animal. ‘Style over substance. You may have had only one shot at it, but _what_ a shot. Don’t you think?’

‘You mean New Orleans?’ It was almost like Hannibal had some kind of aura, some kind of force field, pressing deeper into Will’s heart the closer he got. ‘Hobbs? I was a cop. It was my job. He was killing them, killing those girls.’

‘Hidden potential can reveal itself in unlikely circumstances. I didn’t witness you coming out of your chrysalis, but I saw the photographs of the scene. I saw that picture of you leaving the building, wet and carmine, staring at nothing. I could almost see the wings erupt from your back.’

Will had seen the photo, of course. It hadn’t been featured much in the media – too morbid, too weird, not in keeping with the hero narrative they wanted to construct – but it had made it onto the front cover of the tabloids, before he had to give the interviews, make the statements. He’d still been drunk on the scent of blood, disassociated and wild.

Thinking of it made those feelings return, made the creature inside perk up and snarl. The knife felt suddenly awkward in his palm. Superfluous. The urge he felt now, looking at Hannibal, was far more primal.

‘Your eyes looked just as they do now.’

Will bristled. He could feel his face getting hot, flushed. ‘So… so that’s it? You started this whole thing to… _engage_ with my “work?”’

‘Think of it as a collaboration, perhaps.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘I had to do it carefully,’ Hannibal continued, only a few feet from Will now, ‘slowly. I was afraid I might scare you off. And I wanted to build up a portfolio before approaching you.’

‘That first time we talked, on the plane. Was that you meeting the artist?’

‘It depends on your definition of meeting. I had seen you before. Observed you.’

‘Stalked me.’

Something like offense seemed to flash across Hannibal’s features. ‘Nothing so crude. I didn’t hide around corners, lying in wait. I merely saw you, as I am sure you saw me.’

Of course. Hannibal had always felt so familiar. Catching glances of his face and his body in crowded airports, streets, hotels, all over the world – he’d imprinted himself on Will’s mind long ago. Will cursed his pursuit of normalcy, this pointless endeavour that had dulled his senses and softened his body. If he’d kept himself alert, maybe he would have noticed all of this earlier, maybe he…

Maybe he would have gone mad.

‘So you saw me. And I saw you. There’s thousands of killers out there. A handful in the paper every week. You didn’t have to wait all these years, do all this.’

‘I did.’ Hannibal’s response was immediate and assured. ‘There _are_ thousands of killers out there. But very few are like you. Like us.’

‘Was it really worth it?’

Hannibal smiled. ‘I hope so.’

Hannibal took one last step, and they were close together now, feeling the other’s warmth. Will felt Hannibal’s breath against his ear.

‘You asked why I’m doing this. It’s because I saw through your façade, and I saw what you were trying to stifle, and I knew that I would have it.’

The knife hit the floor with a ringing clang when Will tackled Hannibal. He hit the ground with a groan, but didn’t let this distract him – no sooner had Will reared back for a punch than Hannibal grabbed him about the torso and held him in place to knee him in the stomach. Will winced, but Hannibal’s leg was low on the ground and the blow hadn’t been strong enough to wind him, so he carried through on his motion and delivered a few fast punches to Hannibal’s ribs, straddling him to keep him in place. Hannibal’s hand ran up his shoulder, up the back of his neck, closed in his hair and yanked back hard. The pain was immediate, and like a puppet on strings, Will brought his hands to his head to prise his opponent’s fingers loose, straightening out his body. This left him wide open, allowing Hannibal to simply let go of Will’s hair and land a solid, precise punch to his solar plexus.

Will let out a choked breath and doubled over, instinctively touching the place where he had been hit, and Hannibal used the momentum to roll them both over so he was on top of Will now. Maybe he overestimated his strength, or he underestimated Will’s resilience, but his eyes were wide with shock when Will’s hands shot up and closed around his throat, using the distraction to regain the upper hand and roll them back to their original positions. He squeezed hard, hearing the primal beast inside his brain snapping and salivating, impatient to be satisfied. Face reddening, Hannibal pressed his chin down onto Will’s grip and turned his head to twist his windpipe out of immediate harm’s way. While Will readjusted his hold, Hannibal hooked his arm around Will’s head and brought it down hard on the back of his neck. Will’s dizziness was instant, his vision blurred, and though this only lasted a few seconds, it was plenty of time for Hannibal to escape the chokehold and position himself for a second blow, this time to Will’s temple. Both of them knew that this would blind him long enough that Hannibal would easily be able to further incapacitate him. Will quickly bent down and gripped Hannibal’s arms, using all his strength to keep him down, their faces inches apart. He repositioned himself for better leverage, shimmied down until he was astride Hannibal’s hips, and felt his heart in his throat when he felt the unmistakeable stiffness of an erection against his legs.

Confused, relieved, exhausted – though unsure of how exactly he felt, Will’s instincts made him look forward and meet Hannibal’s gaze. In the middle of the struggle, his eyes were clear and calm. Will became acutely aware of the scent of expensive cologne and sweat, the sensation of powerful but pliable flesh under him, and the silence in the house, broken only by groans and rustling clothes.

This murderer. This man. This man who loved him because he was sick. Because they both were.

Tangible. Real. At last.

Hannibal was still looking at him with dark, passionate eyes, straining to escape and share with Will that _thing_ that united them, that passion he’d spent so long running from. More than anything, now, he felt like Jacob fruitlessly wrestling the angel, strength filtering out his muscles and doubt gradually leaving his mind. He breathed hard, swallowed dry, and finally closed the space between them to press a desperate kiss to Hannibal’s mouth.

It started tender. Ethereal. Will wasn’t sure what he was doing, and at first, he could only be ashamed of how dry and chapped his lips felt against Hannibal’s. He closed his eyes and ended their short, chaste contact with an embarrassingly loud smack, but he didn’t move far before Hannibal pulled him back in for a long, deep kiss. Will breathed out a shaky moan as their tongues met and mingled, sending a shiver of arousal down low into his stomach, then lower still, until he matched Hannibal’s hardness with his own. It had been so long since he’d been this close to someone else, and never with a man. Hannibal’s hands stroked his back and he was torn between two minds: his own, growing in excitement and arousal, and his companion’s, mirroring his feelings, yet always tinged with an undercurrent of aggression. As if on cue, Will felt nibbling at his lips, nothing more than soft lovebites, but he knew it couldn’t stay that way. He responded in kind, biting down harder, breathing faster when Hannibal groaned lustfully into his mouth.

Hannibal drew first blood, nipping a painful little wound into Will’s lower lip, plumped and flush with the mounting intensity of their kisses. Will supposed he’d had plenty of experience puncturing human skin with his teeth, and he was too lost in the giddy heat of the moment to find the idea anything but beautiful. He returned the favour, puncturing just inside the other’s lip, and the kissing took on a coppery flavour as their blood mixed with their saliva, urging on their ferocity until they were pawing at each other like animals.

Hannibal’s fingers crept underneath Will’s shirt to find the still-healing tender spots along his sides and dig into them hard, nails first, so hard it seemed like at any moment Will’s skin would give and Hannibal would be touching his insides. The pain was instant and severe, but it was a good kind of hurt, one that anchored him into the moment and made it all feel real. It was really happening. He shuddered when Hannibal scraped across a fresh scar and held onto him tight, feeling himself close to orgasm or nirvana or _something_ , something he’d never be able to return from.

That’s when he heard the scream.

The muffled, desperate scream from the black brand name sports bag just a few feet away, a barely intelligible ‘help me’ spoken against strong tape.

And Will was lost inside the dark confines of the bag now, sticky blood drying crusty inside his nose, muscles burning from hours – days? – confined in the same unnatural position, and scared. Scared. _Scared_.

Hannibal stopped kissing him when he realised Will was no longer responding, and relaxed his grip. He gently rolled them both over so Will was lying on the ground, looking up. The hallucination was starting to fade. His heart, which had been beating hard and fast and excited, felt gripped by an icy hand. A little blood was smeared around Hannibal’s mouth, from their urgent kisses. He was real.

This man. This murderer.

Will glanced in the direction of the bag, failing to properly see it. ‘What are we going to do?’

Hannibal placed his hands on Will’s face, cradling it tenderly. His skin was rough, but so was Will’s.

‘I’m going to free you.’

He lifted Will’s head up off the floor. The smile on his face was benevolent and gorgeous, but it made Will feel sick, and he tried to speak just as Hannibal violently bashed the back of his skull against the kitchen tiles.

Will barely had time to register the pain – coursing from the back of his head to his eyes, then back to where his wound had reopened – before everything went black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next one's gonna be pretty hardcore, but since we're all Fannibals, I'll assume everyone's comfortable with a certain level of violence.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went back and edited the previous chapters for grammar and some minor plot consistency stuff. The changes are minimal, so you don't need to reread them for this final segment to work.
> 
> I've also changed the rating to Explicit for reasons that will become apparent, if they aren't already. (the reason is violence)

There was only darkness.

For a second, he thought he might still be asleep – in the thrall of a nightmare of abduction or blindness, like he had been so often before – but he felt a sharp sting where his head wound had reopened, and hissed before he could stop himself. Still, the gloom persisted. He was awake.

The slight tightness around his skull must be a blindfold. Judging by the total blackout, it had to be padded, purpose made. Nothing improvised. Rough rope bound his arms and legs, chafing his bare skin, and he was lying face-up on a hard surface with sloping sides. The bathtub. It was cold. Colder than it should be regardless of his nudity, as though the heating had been completely shut off. From another room, he could hear faint jazzy music.

He jolted when the rim of a glass touched his lips, dribbling cool water into his mouth.

‘Are you in pain?’ Hannibal asked.

His voice was so close.

Definitely within headbutting distance.

But what was the point?

‘A little,’ Will mumbled. ‘My head.’

‘I’m sorry. But you would have struggled otherwise.’ He brought the glass to Will’s mouth again and tipped it carefully, making sure he wouldn’t choke. ‘Your wound needed redressing. I took care of it.’

‘Thanks.’

Saying it instantly felt idiotic, but nothing seemed real anymore except for the rope wound too tight around him. What was the proper etiquette in this kind of situation?

‘Are you going to kill me?’

Hannibal silently helped him drink the rest of the water, then stood up and moved away. Will heard his shoes clacking on the tiled floor, the sound oddly muffled. A warm droplet landed on Will’s chest, where it joined a small pool that dripped down his sides.

‘Do you remember our meeting in Heathrow, Will?’

Will moved his head toward Hannibal’s voice. He had to be standing near the door now, and – yes. As if on cue, Will heard the click of the latch, then the lock being engaged.

‘Yeah,’ Will replied. ‘You gave me that drawing.’

‘You have kept it.’

Though he’d hidden it away under a pile of paperwork in his office, it was true that Will had kept the portrait of him lying unconscious on the break room couch, each line rendered so perfectly it seemed as though he could reach through and strangle his sleeping self.

‘It’s a good resemblance,’ Will said. ‘Did you drug me, that time?’

‘Yes. You were connecting the dots. I did not want you to do anything rash in the heat of the realisation.’

‘Like call the cops?’

Hannibal didn’t respond.

Will nodded. ‘Not while you were in the country, anyway. Knocking me out gave you a head start.’

‘Would you have called the police?’ Hannibal asked.

It was Will’s turn to be silent.

‘I didn’t,’ he finally said.

He heard the tap being turned on in the sink, then the sound of flowing water interrupted by something being rinsed.

‘In London, I said Renaissance artists believed that as God is _in_ man –‘

‘Man _is_ God,’ Will completed.

‘Exactly. Dissecting the body gave them visions into the divine.’

Another droplet splashed onto Will’s body, sending a ripple to his core that turned it to ice.

He could smell blood.

‘Hannibal?’ he said, voice tinged with uncertainty.

The faucet squeaked off and Hannibal was once again by his side, his face near Will’s.

‘Perhaps those artists were merely recalling their ancestral beliefs. A sort of muscle memory of the soul. Have you been to Tuscany, Will?’

Will pressed his lips together and tested his bonds, finding them just as well tied as before.

‘Before it fell to Rome, the Etruscans prospered there for hundreds of years, and still, we know little about them. What we do know is this. Atop the hills, in their fortified villages, the Etruscans built altars. And every so often, under the baking Tuscan sun, a youth would willingly lay his head down on the slab and let his brothers slit him open from chin to navel. He knew that, in the ecstasy of death, his people would witness sanctity in him, and all would become rich and beautiful.’

Hannibal touched Will’s soft curls, stroked his forehead with his thumb. Will lay very still, breathing hard.

‘Hannibal.’

‘The Etruscans knew that, often, a sacrifice is needed to awaken the gods.’

With that, Hannibal ran his hand down the back of Will’s head, grabbed the elastic band holding the blindfold in place, and whipped it off.

Even accounting for his vision adjusting, the room was unnaturally bright. The light reflected off white tile and porcelain in a perpetually reinforcing loop, so that everything looked clinical and angelic, and the man suspended over the bathtub was lit from all angles so there were no shadows anywhere on his naked body.

It was difficult for Will to process what he was looking at. At first, irrationally, he thought the man might somehow be floating up above, but he soon noticed the ropes tied to the foot of the sink, looping through an eyehook to suspend his hogtied body over the tub. Although the man’s face was deformed from welts and cuts, Will immediately recognised him as the violent passenger from a few weeks ago. His eyes displayed the blankness of a mind pushed far beyond mere shock. Electrical tape wound around his head served as a crude gag, allowing a mixture of thick maroon blood and spit to accumulate on his lower lip, hang precariously in the air, and separate to dash against Will’s chest.

When the droplet hit him, Will closed his eyes and tried to recoil from the sight, wriggling uselessly in his restraints.

‘I wanted to have him intact,’ Hannibal said, ‘but Mr Moore was making far too much noise.’

He placed his hand back on Will’s head, running his fingers through his hair to tug sharply when Will tried to flinch away from his touch.

‘Thankfully, the problem was easily solved through the application of a knife to the vocal folds.’

Will was gasping now, near hyperventilation.

‘Hannibal,’ he wheezed. ‘Pl – please –‘

‘It’s alright,’ Hannibal murmured, stroking Will’s locks with a tenderness that was almost unbearable. ‘Don’t be scared. You’ve done this before.’

‘I _haven’t_!’ Will exclaimed, jerking away from Hannibal’s touch. ‘I’ve never – I haven’t – nothing like this!’

Hannibal took him by the shoulders to stop his writhing, then firmly twisted Will’s chin toward him. Will’s pupils were dilated, shining with adrenaline and

 

and

 

‘Haven’t you?’ Hannibal asked, gazing intently into those wild eyes. ‘In your mind, haven’t you done this and far worse, hundreds of times?’

‘When I was disassociating –‘

‘Not when you were in someone else’s mind. Inside your own.’ Will’s restless movements slowed. Though his breathing remained laboured, it was as though Hannibal’s stare was hypnotic, forcing him to submit. ‘Haven’t you imagined the sight of a blade sinking into soft flesh? The smell and taste of blood everywhere?’

Will tried to protest. His eyes shot to the man hanging above, then back to Hannibal. ‘I don’t… I don’t know.’

‘I do.’ Hannibal moved closer and pressed his forehead to Will’s, not breaking the eye contact for a second. ‘I know you. What you are. I see you, and you see me.’

Where Will’s insides had been petrified and frigid, he could feel them chipping away bit by bit from the inside now. The beast hidden away in his entrails was fighting for freedom, getting closer to the surface with every heartbeat.

‘Don’t do this,’ he whispered, unable to tear his gaze away.

Hannibal smiled, a small and weary smile, patient and kind like a tired parent. He tilted his face forward and kissed Will deeply. The effect was intoxicating, Hannibal’s tongue probing and venomous like that of a Komodo dragon. Will made a small noise at the back of his throat when Hannibal stood up.

‘It will be worth it,’ he said. The bulb hung off the ceiling just behind his head to backlight him like a shining halo. He was out of reach, enormous and powerful.

Will kept his eyes trained on Hannibal’s hand as it left his side, clutching a carving knife from Will’s kitchen, and arced through the air to bury the blade to the hilt at the top of Moore’s stomach.

For a split second, the scene was almost comical; Hannibal stood by the tub with his arm up, holding the knife handle against Moore’s body, while he hung nude and expressionless over Will.

Then, everything happened at once.

Moore’s eyes widened with shock and his blank face contorted with agony. Blood sprayed freely onto Will’s chest as Moore let out a mute scream, shaking his head from side to side and struggling in vain to escape, until Hannibal ran the knife down Moore’s body in one fluid motion, slicing through layers of muscle and fat to split the belly lengthwise.

Mouth slightly agape, Will watched the man’s pink guts bloom out of his body, and the tiny room filled with the coppery scent of oblivion. Without missing a beat, Hannibal reached inside the fresh wound to tug and cut at the innards until they were loose and free. Immobilised, fascinated, horrified, Will could do nothing but stare as Moore’s blood and viscera rained down on him, his mind in override when Hannibal pulled the silently screeching man’s head back, cleaved his exposed throat, and showered Will’s face with a carnelian arterial jet.

When the blood flowed hot into his mouth,

the monster broke free.

Like the inside of an airplane cabin decompressing in high altitude, Will’s conscience became hostile and murky. He was awake, though barely, dimly aware as his brain seemed to throb and struggle to retain normalcy, while the barrier he’d spent a decade consolidating cracked and crumbled and let out the dark, noxious demon inside.

This was how it ended.

 

This was how it ended.

 

not with a bang.

 

but with

 

a

 

Air flowed out over Will’s face as Moore wheezed and spat his death rattles. Hannibal severed some of the knots holding him in the suspended hogtie, so Moore’s body flopped forward. He was upside down now, hands still bound behind his back, but otherwise hanging like a pig’s carcass in an abattoir.

Will stayed silent and still while Hannibal expertly butchered the corpse over the bathtub, cutting through tendons and joints to separate the limbs from the body and discarding what couldn’t be used. Although he’d scooped most of the offal out of the abdominal cavity early on, he took greater care when he reached the thorax, assiduously checking the organs for suitability and depositing his picks in the sink.

Hannibal had clearly refined this process down to an art, working straight through with admirable efficiency. After a few hours, Moore lay dissected into healthy organs, a few choice cuts – chunks off the thighs and chest, the cheeks, the lower back – and a mound of unsuitable fleshy waste, which, by now, covered most of Will’s body. Hannibal was less grimy, but not by much. His clothes were irreparably stained, his light hair clumped together by drying clots of blood, and his pale skin was shiny and slick with thick, custardy body fat.

He gently pushed Will to sit up, finding no resistance, and slipped the carving knife under the ropes to free him. Will’s muscles burned when he moved, but the pain barely registered. He stretched out his arms and legs, encouraging full sensation to return to his limbs.

Neither had spoken since Hannibal’s last declaration.

_It will be worth it._

Will wanted to stand, and Hannibal helped him get to his feet, careful not to let him slip or stumble. With detached interest, Will noticed that the bathroom floor was covered in plastic sheeting, with the edges taped to the walls. That explained why Hannibal’s footsteps had been muffled. Will’s stare moved from the floor to the sink, filled with meat, then higher up, until he met his reflection’s eyes in the mirror.

He was drenched in blood from head to toe, droplets beaded on the dark hair scattered across his torso, trickling down his body to drip onto the floor. He could vaguely see Moore behind him, littering the tub and sprayed across the tiled walls. He met Hannibal’s gaze in the mirror. The blood streaked all across Hannibal’s skin and clothes highlighted every curve and hollow, made him appear fully corporeal and even a little vulnerable.

Neither spoke, and Will could swear he saw uncertainty in Hannibal’s face for the first time.

‘Will,’ said Hannibal, and his voice was smooth and oaken, ‘what do you see?’

Will looked himself over again. He cleared his throat, still sore from screams he hadn’t realised he’d let out.

‘I see us,’ he said. He turned to face Hannibal, studying his fine, foreign features, and pointedly looked him in the eyes. ‘I see beauty.’

Just as he finished speaking, he stepped forward and crushed his mouth against Hannibal’s with aggressive abandon. The surprise delayed his response by a second, but Hannibal was soon responding just as fiercely, wrestling Will’s tongue with his and holding him close so they were sultry and hard against each other.

Will pulled away from the kiss with a wet _pop_ to tear Hannibal’s shirt open, sending pale purple buttons skittering onto the floor. The sight of his body gave Will pause, and he stopped to stroke Hannibal’s chest almost reverently before pressing up against him again.

‘I want your skin on mine,’ he murmured, between urgent pecks.

Hannibal made short work of his ruined clothing and traded fervent kisses with Will as they sank down to the floor. Laying on Hannibal’s supine body, Will was overwhelmed by how naturally they fit together, how good and uncomplicated everything felt. The terror and fatigue of the previous weeks felt alien. Hannibal raked his fingernails roughly over Will’s healing injuries, and though it hurt just as much as before, the pain came with a shot of dizzying pleasure that made him moan loud and unrestrained. He was hit with an urge to see Hannibal and sat up, so he was straddling the other’s hips.

Divested and lustful, Hannibal was exquisite. His body was just as Will had imagined, just as it promised to be, all lean muscle and perfect pallor. As he breathed and moved, the plastic beneath him crinkled and flattened out, forcing the blood to constantly pool and pour throughout the shifting sheet like a living aura. Will took his rigid cock in his hand, lubricated with slippery adipose tissue and freely flowing precome, and rubbed it against Hannibal’s answering erection. The hungry groan he got in response made him smile, and he leaned down again to taste his lover’s lips.

In this ravaged bathroom, smelling of sex and decay, Will was reborn.

\---

‘Man!’ Beverly exclaimed, flopping down on the foldout chair. ‘Why do I have to feel like a third wheel at _work_?’

‘Who’s a third wheel?’ Jimmy asked. He was halfway through a routine inventory check, ticking off boxes on the list with an air of pure contentment. Will was washing the used lunch dishes from First Class, scrubbing the stains off with gloved hands.

‘Okay. First, Margot’s piloting, so that’s her and Alana paired up.’ Beverly crossed her legs. ‘Then, there’s you and Brian, so that’s you guys effectively paired up.’

‘So jealous of our love,’ Jimmy muttered.

‘ _So_ jealous. I don’t know how your wife puts up with it.’ She stretched, arching her back until it let out an audible crack. ‘And then, there’s Graham’s sudden love life.’

Will paused mid-way through peeling off his rubber gloves. ‘Me?’

‘I mean, yeah. Yes. That fancy guy who’s been showing up on our flights all the time. The one we’ve all seen you talking to. The one you’re clearly dating.’

He smiled reservedly. ‘I think it might be against company policy to tell a passenger my schedule like that.’

‘And as we know, company policy is the law,’ Jimmy said, checking off the final box and tapping his pen against his clipboard with an air of finality. ‘And we don’t break the law.’

‘Sure.’ Beverly raised an eyebrow, adopting the deadpan gaze she’d perfect over the years. ‘It just so happens that he flies with us several times per month, and it just so happens that you’re always on First Class duty when he’s on board. Including today.’

Will pressed his lips together and gave a small shrug.

‘When you’re vacationing in the Seychelles with your hot older European boyfriend, please spare a thought for your pal Bev and her forty-eight cats,’ she said, looking up at him with all the drama of a silent movie actress.

Will couldn’t help grinning. ‘Maybe we can bring you along. He’s got airmiles like you wouldn’t believe.’

Brian popped his head around the curtain separating crew from the main cabin.

‘Is anyone gonna help Alana clear Economy’s trays today, or…?’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ Jimmy sighed, neatly sliding his clipboard into its designated slot on his way to the aisle. ‘I’ll do it, babe,’ he said, dodging past his colleague on the way out.

Brian watched him go and ambled into the crew area, confused. ‘Babe?’

‘Don’t deny your love,’ Beverly replied, flipping through a magazine.

Brian processed this for a couple of seconds, then nodded, apparently satisfied with the response, and walked on into the cockpit to chat with the pilots during his break. Will dried his hands and pulled the magazine cart out of its hole in the wall.

‘Reading round?’ Beverly asked.

‘Yeah,’ Will said, wheeling the cart over to the dividing curtain, ‘figured some folks might want a little post-lunch literature.’

‘Literature, huh? Might wanna pull Tattlecrime out of there, in that case.’

‘Can’t help what the people want.’ Will leaned down a little to get a look at Beverly’s magazine. ‘And you’re reading the National Enquirer.’

‘Look, sometimes, a girl’s gotta get the deets on Kim and Kanye’s fourth divorce of the year,’ Beverly said, pointedly turning over a page. ‘Go and say hi to your boyfriend - I mean, distribute literature. Shoo.’

Will rolled his eyes and pushed past the curtain into the cabin. This was a short flight – Dallas to Baltimore – and First Class was sparsely filled, but that hardly mattered. Professional interaction was easy again, maybe even simpler than before. Will’s mouth settled into a casual smile, and he approached the passengers.

Martha and Louis Allen, first time on a plane, visiting their son and his new baby. She took a copy of the New York Times.

Tiffany Holden, home for the holidays. Her parents were bankers, and she was studying Communications. She took a copy of Vogue, barely looking up from her phone. The little dog in the carrier wagged its tail and snorted happily at Will.

Dean Huxley, mediocre thespian. Living well beyond his means. He waved Will off with a shaking hand, then went back to worrying the scab on his arm. Never liked to fly, especially not with an ounce of weed tucked into his sock.

And Hannibal.

In a burgundy three-piece suit and striped Oxford Blue tie, offset by a pale cream shirt and matching pocket square, with black leather shoes. His legs were crossed at the knee, hands loosely holding an iPhone in his lap. When he unhooked the sleek Bang & Olufsen earphones from his ears, Will could faintly hear the ethereal music of Johanna Beyer.

Though it had been almost five months since that night, the sight of Hannibal still set his heart aflutter.

‘Good afternoon, Will.’

‘Afternoon, Mr Lecter.’ Will gestured at the magazines and newspapers laid out in front of him. ‘FT?’

‘Please.’

Will lifted the magazine up from where it lay, exposing a copy of _Tattlecrime_. The title screamed ‘TORMENT IN TALLAHASSEE’ in a tacky font and the cover showed a corpse – pixelated just enough to be acceptable – spread out on the ground in a clear imitation of da Vinci’s _Vitruvian Man_ , with an extra set of severed limbs carefully arranged in the correct positions. Will’s hand grazed Hannibal’s as he handed over the _Financial Times_ , and the contact sent a delicious shiver through his body.

‘Anything else?’ Will asked.

He saw Hannibal’s eyes flick down to _Tattlecrime_ , then back up at him.

‘Maybe later. Thank you.’

Hannibal smiled. Will’s professional grin became genuine, creased the corners of his eyes for the briefest moment.

‘Absolutely,’ he said, before carrying on to the next passenger.

\---

The sun beat down hard on the thick treetops, filtering down onto the forest floor in soft, pretty patterns, and the air was filled with rhythmic beats as Will hammered Curtis Gray’s head into the ground.

At first, his kills had all been brutal. Years of pent-up murderous instincts manifested in skin torn open with teeth and nails, collapsed throats and ribcages, bodies so savaged they looked barely human. Whether or not he participated in the actual murder, Hannibal cleaned up after him. Beaming with pride, he watched Will explore grisly pleasures, then swooped in to help him consummate the sensuality of slaying, harvest prime cuts of flesh, and remove the victim’s identifying features.

Following Hannibal’s guidance, Will was learning to control the animal coursing through his veins, how to release the pressure valve a little at a time so he could more thoroughly appreciate the nuanced wonders of killing.

He was better at it, now.

Often, he could align his murderous instincts with his gift of perception, and let his consciousness ebb and flow and delight in veins melting open, the instant give of a limb bending unnaturally when a bone cracked in two, the smells and sounds of the human body struggling to survive.

But sometimes, like today, Will couldn’t help indulging his primitive appetite for quick, brutal destruction.

By the time he was coming down from the drunken giddiness of his violence, Gray’s head had been almost entirely reduced to mush. Panting, Will wiped the sweat off his brow with the back of his hand, and groaned when he realised he’d just spread fresh blood over his face.

‘You look ravishing.’

Hannibal smiled at him from a few paces away, leaning against a tree, characteristically composed. Will smirked, dropped the hammer on the ground, and walked closer.

‘I’m not sure how sarcastic that was supposed to be, but I’ll take it as a compliment,’ he said, stopping just short of his partner. He knew Hannibal liked this Canali blazer, and blood was so difficult to wash out.

‘Do,’ Hannibal murmured, caressing Will’s face.

He leaned into the touch, briefly closing his eyes and inhaling the intoxicating scent of death and Hannibal. He felt lips ghost over his, and his hands cradled Hannibal’s face as they embraced, the soft sounds of their sighs and kisses fading into the ambient noise of rustling leaves and chirping birds.

Will chuckled when they pulled away from each other.

‘Sorry, I got some of the…’ he gestured towards his head.

Hannibal felt his own cheek and came away with red fingers. Will had left a bloody handprint either side of his mouth, and splotches had flecked off his hair and nose to further stain Hannibal’s skin. Though it looked imperfect, there was enough symmetry in the markings to give the impression of ceremonial makeup.

Hannibal looked heavenward in mock exasperation.

‘If it’s any consolation, it suits you,’ Will commented.

Hannibal quirked his lips in amusement as he pulled the plastic raincoat over his clothes. He slipped on a pair of latex gloves, waggled his fingers to get comfortable, and picked up his small knife case. After a quick walk around the carrion, he paused to consider the scene.

‘He looks to be in good condition. I believe we could salvage at least ten kilos.’

They had already set up a tableau earlier that month, in Florida. Since their courtship had culminated in Will’s conversion, Hannibal no longer had to stick to a specific murder schedule, engaging in their art whenever circumstances allowed. Each new elaborate kill had to be carefully planned to give the illusion that the “murderer” was on the move, headed South to the border. It was easier to keep police attention away from their identities the further the supposed killer travelled from Maryland and Virginia.

The extraneous, unaesthetic murders were mainly utilitarian, for Hannibal’s cooking projects, though this didn’t mean they didn’t come with their share of bliss and holiness.

‘Do you have any recipes lined up?’ Will asked.

‘A few. For Friday, I was thinking turtle soup.’ Hannibal glanced up with a smile, then returned to palpating the corpse for cuts with the right distribution of muscle and fatty tissue. ‘It seems appropriate, since it will have been a year since we first spoke.’

Warmth flooded Will’s cheeks.

‘You want some help?’ he asked. Hunting in his youth had taught him the basics of cleaning a carcass, and Hannibal’s tutelage was rapidly refining his skills.

‘If you could. Best to get the meat into the fridge soon, in this heat,’ Hannibal replied.

Will walked over and crouched to better observe the proceedings. Bloody droplets clung to his eyebrows like morning dew. The sight of Hannibal’s blade sinking into Gray’s thigh made his mouth water. The look of concentration on Hannibal’s face made his heart swell with pride and love.

He picked up another knife from Hannibal’s set, and got to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I left everyone hanging, but what better way to start the new year than the conclusion to this story (?)
> 
> This is the longest fic I've ever written and my first ever Hannibal fic and IT SHOWS. I went back and edited the previous chapters for SPAG and other random mistakes, but it's probably still a bit all over the place. I really enjoyed writing it and I hope that when I have more time, I can come back and maybe do a longer form version. We'll see.
> 
> We never got around to the Mile High Club! Maybe I'll have to bash out a quick and dirty PWP side chapter or two :^)
> 
> Johanna Beyer, who is mentioned in passing in this final chapter, isn't the type of composer we see Hannibal enjoy in the series, but she made some extraordinary music in the 30s and I figured he'd be into her style (and imo she might have influenced the people who scored the show). [Have](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eaM1Dj9ab5Y) [some](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F8EGDcwpYsg) [examples](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_REVFN7A6_4). Mostly I just want more people to know about her.
> 
> Big thanks to everyone who's followed Cabin Pressure. I've got ideas for future fics, but I'm not sure when I'll be able to get round to them... hopefully in the next few months! I'm on [Tumblr](http://elfgrandfather.tumblr.com) if you want to say hi.


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